Through The Rain
by SoloWraith
Summary: Part 3, a conclusion/follow-up to Beyond The River, begun with Into The Forest.
1. Chapter 1

_"Into the forest the warrior goes,_

_Now past the glade where the tall grass grows_

_Beyond the river that sparkles bright_

_Then through the rain; and last, sunlight."_

_(Origin unknown: thought to be Delaware children's rhyme)_

**Mid-summer, 1758**

"Help me with the buckets, Ben," Alice called out, tucking wisps of sun-lightened hair out of her face as she straightened upright. Sweat ran down her back unpleasantly, making her long for a proper bathe in the stream, but that would have to wait until the regular cabin chores were finished. There was always so much to do. She and Cora had grown somewhat used to the work, which was more repetitive than strenuous: hauling water, preserving and preparing food, washing clothes. But with Nathaniel and Uncas spending almost all their daylight hours on the building of the new cabin, there was little time for sleeping in, idle walks to gather flowers, or swims that were anything more than a quick scrub of one's extremities.

The boy she had addressed appeared and took two of the water-filled buckets as she had requested. Though Ben was quick to obey and not lazy, it was difficult for any of the adults to induce him to speak in either English, of which his understanding was growing, or Delaware. Alice often wondered how long it would be before he was judged suitable for introduction to Chingachgook and the other relatives at the wolf camp, where he was to make his permanent home, if Nathaniel had his way. In the meantime, Alice did not mind his presence. Ben was biddable and, though still small for his age, surprisingly useful. They often sent him back and forth between the original cabin and the site of the new one with food or messages for the men, and he covered the mile in minutes. He had lost his initial wariness of Alice, but spent most of his time with Cora, whom he adored and would do anything for. Both Nathaniel, and particularly Uncas, Ben continued to regard with a watchfulness that bordered on suspicion, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by any of them but which they had decided as a whole to overlook.

Alice took the last bucket, sliding it into the crook of her elbow where its weight rested a little more comfortably, and preceded Ben back up the path, now swarming with wildflowers, to the clearing. The sun was piercingly bright midday, and there was little wind to help offset its heat. Alice looked forward to the relative coolness of the cabin.

Indoors, she remembered that Cora had been intending to cook biscuits that day, and had a brisk fire going for that purpose. The warmth struck her afresh as she came through the open doorway. Cora crouched by the fire, her face visibly flushed even in the glow thrown off from the hearth.

"Aren't you sweltering?" Alice demanded, setting her water down. Ben lingered behind her in the entryway.

"Yes," Cora admitted, "but I wanted to try these again." She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and looked at the lumps of half-baked dough lined up near the blaze. Glancing back at Alice, she gave a laugh that sounded as if it meant to be lighthearted but couldn't quite manage it. "Not quite up to the standards of home, are they?"

It was odd to hear her sister say home and know that she meant England. Alice didn't herself know at which point she had come to think of the cabin as her home; perhaps it had been at some time through the long winter spent with Uncas, perhaps not till she had been reunited with Cora and Nathaniel and realized that this _was_ home now...she wasn't certain.

"It's too hot to be cooking," she said again, finally.

"I thought it would be nice to have something different for our lunch." Cora meant the men's lunch, Alice thought, but did not say this. They usually ate only in the mornings and evenings themselves, not because there was a shortage of food but because they both instinctively knew that certain supplies would have to last a long time before they could be replenished.

"The morning's leftovers will have to do," Alice said, fanning herself. At least, Nathaniel and Uncas welcomed uncritically any food that found its way to them with the same level of appreciation every time. They worked from sunrise to its fall every day on the cabin and came home at nights ravenously hungry.

"I suppose." Cora rose and examined the contents of the pot on the ledge that usually held their morning and evening porridge gruel. "Bring it down to them, Ben?"

Alice glanced over to see the boy's face fall. No doubt he was growing tired of playing messenger several times a day, though he had not yet complained. Mustering up energy, she said, "I can go," and was rewarded by his slight, rare smile. She had wanted to sit and relax for a while in the cabin, but it wasn't cool in any case, so there was little reason to linger.

Deep green grasses plucked at the skirt of her dress as she waded through them, squinting to follow the new path that was by now becoming well-worn. It was a pleasant enough walk, at least in summer. The path worked its way on a slight decline, roughly paralleling the stream, down to lower terrain where the soil was richer. The new cabin was located right in the midst of what had been a thick cluster of trees, almost all of which had been felled in service of its building. A plot for a large garden was also being cleared nearby.

Alice had not been to visit the new site since the weather had gotten hot and she was momentarily astounded, as it came into view, at how much progress Nathaniel and Uncas had made. The walls, with their thick logs free of mosses and lichens, already rose higher than her head. She had known the men meant to finish the structure before the arrival of autumn but seeing it now she realized with a sudden pang that Nathaniel and Cora would no doubt be ready to move out much sooner than that. All that looked to be left to finish was the roof.

Well, their own cabin was far too cramped for four-five, counting Ben-people as it was, even if they were only all together in the evenings and at nights, she reasoned, watching Uncas who was piling stones for the chimney and who had no doubt heard her coming but had not yet looked up.

"Hungry?" she asked Nathaniel, who was closer by, hacking at limbs on a prone tree with one of their axes.

"Very," he said, pausing to wipe sweat off his face with a buckskin-clad arm, and setting down the tool. He reached for the pot in Alice's hand but she pulled it away with a frown. "Aren't you going to wait for your brother?"

Nathaniel grinned at her pertness, which she had only recently learned to cultivate with him, gave her a little bow, and said, "Naturally." He called over with a one-syllable Mohegan injunction that Uncas soon responded to by joining them.

In deference to the other couple, Alice and Uncas rarely indulged in any displays of affection, even minor ones, when not alone. Nathaniel and Cora could often be found sitting together, Cora would touch her husband's shoulder when speaking to him, or he would catch her hand; and they usually parted with a kiss in the mornings; but Alice had not yet learned to be comfortable with such intimacies in her own relationship. Uncas might have tried, though he was less demonstrative than his brother to begin with; but Alice had been quick to let him know, through avoiding any such gestures, that overtures were not welcome if anyone else was present.

So now, Uncas did not attempt to touch her, or otherwise impose on her person; he didn't smile, either, since his smiles were as rare as Ben's, being almost counter-intuitive in his culture; but his eyes were warm, and said, _I am glad it was you today_.

Alice ducked her head, embarrassed even at this tiny display of feelings. Not that Nathaniel seemed to notice, or would have objected if he had. After all, perhaps they were not exactly husband and wife, certainly not in the formal, established sense, but it was obvious what they were to each other. Or at least it seemed to Alice that it must be. That it should be, by now. That nothing needed to be said...aloud...regarding what anybody was to anybody else.

The two men crouched companionably on the ground, while Alice lingered. Uncas unselfconsciously offered her the pot but she declined, never having gotten completely used to the concept of communal consumption, and murmured something about already having eaten. She didn't mean to lie, but as she'd learned from her time spent at the wolf camp the summer before, it was problematic to refuse food. Better that they think she was full, rather than telling the truth, which was that if she didn't absolutely have to fuel her body she had no intention of willingly partaking of the monotonous gruel.

Alice swatted at a fly buzzing around the back of her neck, which was still damp with perspiration. There was no breeze here either. She thought longingly of the lake, but it was too far to warrant a trip at this time of day; besides, she doubted she had the energy to make it in this heat. And it wouldn't be fair to leave the cabin's duties to Cora.

"Hot," Uncas observed, without irony. Nathaniel shot Alice an amused glance, which she vaguely resented. It _was_ hot. Why shouldn't that be remarked upon? But then she felt a little guilty for the momentary irritation and said, by way of repenting, "You have done a lot since I was last down here."

"Mm." Nathaniel finished the last mouthful from the pot, set the ladle down and looked reflectively across the newly cleared site at the cabin. "Could be ready to move in by next week, maybe. You'll be glad to have us out of your way, I guess, little sister."

"No," she murmured with some diffidence. "It's been nice, being together. Having someone to talk to..."

"Why, is this one not much for conversation?" Nathaniel elbowed his younger brother in the ribs, a move which might have unbalanced a person of less natural grace and equilibrium, but which Uncas adjusted to immediately by shifting lightly sideways, rising to his feet as he did so.

Alice tugged at the end of her plait of hair, embarrassed, though she didn't need to be for Uncas' sake. He never seemed bothered by Nathaniel's gently derogatory quips. Though she herself had grown comfortable over the past few months with the idea of Nathaniel as her older brother by law, she still found herself occasionally baffled by his shifts in manner from seriousness to teasing, and it was often difficult to tell which was which.

"I'll take you back now," Uncas said, mildly, to Alice. She began to protest that she didn't need to be accompanied, but gave up after an instant because she knew he was not making an offer, waiting on her acceptance, but informing her of his intention. If ever she was in danger of forgetting how vast the differences were between this Mohegan warrior and a typical British gentleman, it was moments like this that reminded her. Nathaniel's smile vexed her because she knew that just for an instant he had read those thoughts on her face, before he rose also and turned back to pick up his axe and resume work.

Uncas must have been preoccupied because he strode up the path as if he thought Alice would keep pace with him, for a few long moments almost disappearing into the trees ahead before doubling back and rejoining her.

"It is far too warm to move that quickly," she argued.

He scanned her face for an instant, reading it, as he always did, paying less attention to her words than to other minute aspects of her appearance; her stance, her eyes, the tilt of her head. "You did not eat."

Like so much of what he said, it was not accusing but matter of fact. Her gaze fell, betrayingly. "I'm not hungry."

"Hungry or not, you must eat." He took hold of her wrists casually, almost caressing, but she knew his fingers were measuring the beat of her blood.

"I feel fine," Alice said defensively, ready for him to say something about her lack of strength. She did feel fine, normally; it was the intensity of the summer heat which was, in its own way, as fatiguing as the bitter cold of the winter. Just when she thought she had acclimatized herself to the extremes of the American weather, she realized she was still expecting it to be more temperate, as it was on the other side of the ocean.

Pulling away, she started to pass him, but he caught her. "_Wiyon-ashay._ We have been busy. I have no time to spend with you. But it will be different soon."

"I know," she said, surprised, wondering if he were apologizing.

"You will tell me if you need anything?"

Alice shifted. "I think...I want to go to the lake."

She would always associate the lake with her memories of the consummation of their relationship, striking and sweet and frightening as that whole night had been; it was something precious and vital that she could never share with anyone else, something that was meant for the two of them alone. She blushed, now, to remember it; how confusing, but how meaningful the occasion had been. It was not a place she wanted to revisit often, for fear that would make the memories commonplace; but she wanted to be there now, in this season of heat and lush green growth, so different from the starkness of winter.

For a moment it seemed as though Uncas would assent, but then he squeezed her hand in regret. "Perhaps by the time of the new moon."

"That is far off," Alice said, trying not to sound childish. She had not thought he would refuse her. "I want to go now, while it is still so hot."

"We must finish the cabin," he reminded her.

"Surely one day won't make such a difference."

"Nathaniel and I used to say such things to our father, when we were younger. He told us we were wrong, that tomorrow's needs are like a woman's moods." He waited for a moment, then, seeing her frown, supplied, "Always changing."

"Do not quote your father to me," Alice said, crossly. "_My_ father, if he were here, would say that we should take the time that has been given to us. We should use each day as it comes and not think on tomorrow."

Uncas glanced away, a subtle emotion flickering across his face.

"What?" Alice said, feeling as if she had just stumbled upon something that she had not been meant to see, even though she was not nearly as adept as interpreting the composition of his features as he was of hers.

He looked vaguely pained. "It is not for me to tell."

"Do you know something?" An awareness was growing upon her. She had suspected since the spring that she was being left out of a confidence, for when she had once mentioned to Cora something about their parent she had seen a look pass between her sibling and Nathaniel.

"You must ask your sister that." He sounded torn but determined.

_Very well, _Alice thought, _I will ask her. Now. _"I will go back alone," she said, quellingly. He made no move to follow, but watched her as she walked away through the forest and disappeared from his sight.

Cora was still in the cabin when Alice arrived. She had let the fire die down so it was not quite as stiflingly hot indoors, although it was still enough to make fresh perspiration spring to Alice's forehead as she stepped within. Ben was perched on a stool by the table, eating one of the biscuits. He always ate with that furtive air of one long accustomed to never getting enough sustenance. Cora was sipping tea and looking tired, Alice thought, but she hardened her mind against such an observation. She did not want to feel sorry for her sister, not now.

"Cora. We never talked about what happened last year when you and Nathaniel left me and Uncas by the river. You said that Father had been taken prisoner."

The older woman set her teacup down, and gestured for Ben to leave them, which the boy did, slipping off his stool and palming another biscuit as he left the cabin. Cora took a long breath. "Yes," she said quietly. "We believed that it would be best if you thought there was still some hope."

"Then he is..."

Cora nodded with an attitude of defeat. "It cannot be otherwise," she said softly.

Alice had expected to feel anger when Cora admitted what she had come to suspect. But now that it had been confirmed, she felt oddly blank. Hollow. She knew she should feel _something_ upon discovering her father was dead...but what that something was, she didn't know.

"Why did you not tell me at the time?" she asked, a little dully.

"Nathaniel thought you wouldn't be ready to hear such news. I agreed with him. He was right, Alice, I think. There was so much else to consider..."

"It wasn't fair that I was the only one. Uncas knew, too."

Cora gave a sigh of acquiescence. "We meant to tell you. I'm sure we did...but then there was never a right time. And when we went to Albany, I suppose I assumed that Uncas might tell you himself. That was cowardly and wrong of me, Alice."

"I deserved to know," Alice persisted. "I am not a child."

"No, although I think you were...then. The winter changed you."

Cora reached out for her sister's hand but Alice avoided it, not willing to forgive just yet. _Being on my own changed me. Knowing that I had to survive, that I had to prove to everyone that I am not as weak as I look._ That _was what changed me._

"I'm sorry," Cora said. "If I could go back, I would not have handled it the same way. Don't blame Nathaniel or Uncas. They knew it was my decision." She poured some more tea in the cup from the little kettle and pushed it across the table to Alice, her eyes appealing her to sit down and drink, to talk further. It was an invitation Alice had never yet refused. But she found she didn't have the will now to concede. It was easier simply to shake her head and back out of the cabin, closing the door as she went.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time the men had washed up by the stream and come in for the evening meal, dusk was beginning to creep over the clearing. Cora had lit two candles which sat atop the table along with the bowls of food she had set out, but Alice's was untouched.

Alice herself sat quietly on the bench, her expression pensive, not sulky as Cora had earlier feared, but she made no move to eat anything. Nathaniel spoke volubly of the progress they were making and chatted with Cora. Uncas, alongside Alice, poked Ben who was sitting at the end of the table and who had just reached across his bowl for another biscuit.

"Ask for something to be passed to you, Ben," Cora remonstrated, noticing this.

"I don't think he will be much in need of manners at the wolf camp," Nathaniel said, although he was aware that Cora purposefully gave Ben directives to help him in the learning of English. Besides, it was not a bad idea for the boy to pick up a few cultural and societal skills as long as he was with them.

"Ben," Cora persisted.

"I'm sorry," Ben said to Uncas in English, without much inflection.

Uncas grunted in acknowledgement. He reached out to lay a hand on the boy's head but Ben flinched away as if expecting a blow. It was not the first time Uncas had tried this and he shared a glance with Nathaniel, both of them thinking the same thing. The lad was taking more time to adjust than they had hoped. Uncas, not bothered by the instinctive reaction, continued calmly to eat, while eyeing Ben thoughtfully.

Alice gave her bowl a tiny push away from her. "Excuse me," she murmured, gathering her skirts. "I must...see to something."

This vague remark did not win her much attention from the others who must have assumed she needed to visit the privy, and she managed to escape into the cooler night air. Gladly she took the path to the stream. It was too light out to see stars yet but the sky was a deep purple, scattered about with feathery clouds. She loved the night sky, which was unfailingly beautiful here. Of course skies were beautiful in England, but there was something special about this location; the colors were deeper, the details sharper and clearer. Or perhaps it was just that the views in England were so often dampened and blurred by the rain.

Uncas was waiting for her when she returned to the cabin not much later. He was sitting on the stone steps, looking out into the gathering dusk. It was rare to see Uncas not actually doing anything at all, but she ascribed this to the ceaseless efforts he and Nathaniel had made in raising the new cabin over the past few months. He didn't look any more tired than normal, however; if he felt so, he was keeping it to himself.

"You didn't eat anything," he observed.

"I am fairly certain that we already had this discussion today," she informed him, perhaps a little too saucily.

"And I am fairly certain that I told you you needed to be eating. What makes you think you can ignore what I say to you?"

He spoke, as he almost always did, without rancor and it was difficult to take offense, even though she wanted to.

"Uncas," she sighed, and wanted to add, _You are not responsible for my well-being_, but she knew he wouldn't let that go unaddressed, either.

"You talked to your sister?"

Alice raised her shoulders and let them fall. "I asked her about our father."

"What did she say?"

"That he is dead."

"I am sorry for your loss, Alice." Though Uncas made the condolences formally in Mohegan, somehow, she understood. "I would have liked to have introduced myself to him, at least as the new protector of his daughter, if there is no other way he would have accepted me."

Alice couldn't even begin to imagine how her father would have reacted to the notion of either one of his daughters-much less the favored younger one-living in the wilderness with an Indian. It didn't bear thinking about.

"Since it has been almost a year, it seems...strange, not to know about until now. And...in a way, as if I already knew, somehow." Leaning back slightly, she gazed up at the sky. "I don't know what to feel, what to do."

"Come inside," Uncas said gently. "And have food."

She smiled with reluctance at him, at his persistence, his practicality. She followed him in, and ate dinner alone at the table, since the others had dispersed: Cora was washing up the few dishes and setting corn to soak for the morrow, while Nathaniel had stretched out in front of the fire, already gently snoring. Ben was at the hearth brushing up wood chips. Still Alice could not meet Cora's concerned gaze; she finished her meal quickly and retired to bed, to lie awake for some time.

* * *

The cabin was black as they slept, as it was too hot for a night fire, and the skies had clouded over. Since the spring, Nathaniel, Uncas and Ben had been spending the nights by the hearth, leaving the bed for the two sisters to share. This system seemed to work best in the small cabin, although of course it rendered any night-time intimacies impossible. But as it was not a permanent arrangement, they all understood that keeping a spirit of compromise and cooperation, and a sense of perspective, was necessary.

Uncas was in both worlds of wakefulness and slumber and yet in neither one completely, in the way that allowed him to get the rest his body needed; he lay, on his back, images flitting through his mind, snippets of dreams, flashes of memories; when some part of his consciousness noted that a hand was very close to his belt where he kept one knife at all times. His own hand shot out and gripped the interloper's. Ben's breath caught in his throat in a barely audible gasp of pain, as Uncas' fingers tightened around the small wrist, though he did not actually cry out.

Uncas sat upright effortlessly, using his stomach muscles, and twisted Ben's arm around to push the boy, who had been crouching, down on his knees. "What," he said into the darkness, "are you doing?"

"Nothing," Ben rasped.

Uncas let him up but tightened his grip on the boy's forearm indicating he did not accept such an explanation. Ben's clarification came out then in mumbled, imperfect Delaware-"Just...want to take your knife without you notice me."

"You tried that with Older Brother and it didn't work then either." Nathaniel had indeed caught Ben in such an attempt earlier in the summer; he had told only Uncas of it, and from Ben's brief stilling of breath he clearly hadn't known Uncas had been privy to that information.

"So why are you doing it again?" Uncas persisted, giving a twist just painful enough to encourage a truthful reply.

"You are the lightest sleeper," Ben muttered reluctantly. "It is no...difficult...no.." he hesitated.

"Challenge," Uncas supplied.

"...challenge..to take from the women."

"What were you going to do with my knife if you got it?"

The boy was silent for a moment, the bones of his arm shifting in continued protest against Uncas' fingers. "Give back."

"The wolf people believe if you steal when you aren't in need, something will be taken from you when you need it most," Uncas told him severely. "Didn't your mother teach you anything?"

A few feet away, Nathaniel groaned, muttering in English, "Can you two take your philosophical discourses on thievery somewhere else?" But then he rolled over, and with a bit more grunting and shifting, resumed snoring.

Ben said nothing-no doubt resenting, Uncas thought, the reference to his mother. But he had felt it needed to be asked. And the boy was going to have to learn that he could not live amongst the members of the wolf camp and keep up the habits that had been honed on the streets of Albany. He would have to start thinking of himself as part of something more than just his person. This was what Nathaniel hoped to accomplish by having him here for an adjustment period, but Uncas wasn't sure it was working.

"Go to sleep," he said finally, pulling Ben down beside him, knowing that the boy would have preferred to return to the other side of the hearth out of arms' reach, but the little beggar had just tried to steal his best knife. Uncas wasn't especially concerned with his right to be comfortable for what remained of the night. Tomorrow they would have to have a proper lesson on stealing, and Uncas knew just whose book to borrow a page from-his father's.

* * *

The weather of the following day cooperated with Uncas' plan for the beginning of the re-education of the Dutch-Munsee boy. It dawned sunless with a misty fog enshrouding the clearing that, by the time they had all arisen for breakfast, had amplified into the summer's first heavy rain. Drops echoed on the rooftop like beans spilling into a birchbark basket. The fire smoked and was fretful. Nathaniel commented cheerfully that it looked like they should have a day off from building. Alice dug out some embroidery and set up in a corner, concentrating intently on her work. Cora began to wash and clear the dishes, and Ben tried to disappear into the background, looking as if he hoped to escape anyone's attention, particularly Uncas's.

But after they finished eating and Uncas had tossed out the washwater for Cora, he sat down at the table and gestured for Ben. The lad approached, his features frozen into a mask that said, as clearly as though it had been spoken aloud, _I don't care what you do to me_.

Uncas indicated the shelf on which rested his father's books, the ones from which he and Nathaniel had been taught to read. "Bring me the big one on the end."

Ben caught himself from expressing surprise and turned obediently to do as he was told. The other occupants of the cabin had begun to watch, although discreetly. Nathaniel fiddled with the morning fire. Cora paused in her wiping of dishes. Even Alice looked past her embroidery, curious despite herself.

Ben laid the tome down-it was heavy enough to create a decisive thud-in front of Uncas.

Uncas pointed at the bench next to him. Ben sat, his posture screaming reluctance. Over the past few months Cora had been teaching him to read, but she was the only one he would sit with to do so; it was clear that he had no desire to be learned if the learning were to come from a book.

The Mohegan warrior (who had not himself opened any of his father's books since he had been made to read them all as a child), proceeded to turn to a chapter near the middle of the volume, then indicated a spot with his finger. "Read," he ordered.

Ben hesitated, and for a moment the others watching thought he would refuse. In a low tone he began haltingly to read, stumbling over most of the words he encountered. Color grew on his cheekbones as he made mistakes, but he continued, doggedly.

Cora looked like she wanted to intervene, but Nathaniel caught her gaze and shook his head. Ben read-or rather, verbally staggered-through the lines, his voice growing less sure.

A log burned its way through before Ben finally reached the end of a page. He took a breath and paused, ready to start the next paragraph, and then fell silent.

"Keep going."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Too...hard." Ben met his eyes defiantly.

_Manto, this boy needs discipline._ Uncas flipped the book closed. "Come outside with me."

Warm rain soaked them within moments of being outdoors. The forest bordering the clearing was dripping and green, the earth sodden and clinging to their feet as they moved just out of sight of the cabin, into a little glade of birches. Uncas turned so fast Ben nearly ran into him. He must have thought they were going for a walk, because he hadn't been paying attention.

Ben looked up, apprehensive, still slightly recalcitrant. The rain matted his dark hair, plastering it against his narrow face, washing out his pale skin.

Uncas studied him, noting how the features and colors of both races had mixed to create his. Both Indian, and white, yet neither. And the more pressing problem was not that he appeared so but that he acted so; he was not a child of the white culture, never having known his father; and whatever kind of woman his mother had been, she clearly had not taught him the tenets and behaviour of her culture either. Perhaps she hadn't had a chance.

He wondered, as he had wondered before, if it were not already far too late for such a boy.

"You wanted to practice," he said, standing slightly off-balance so that his stance would not appear too confrontational. Ben was, after all, little more than a child, and it wasn't his desire to hurt him. "Go ahead and practice." He loosened the clasp holding the knife at his belt, so that it could be extracted, and tapped it.

Ben shifted like a startled deer. He shook his head minutely.

"Take the knife," Uncas prompted. "Get this done and we can go back in." It would not have bothered him to spend hours in the rain, but he knew Ben disliked it.

The boy's hand moved, just a split second of a motion. He was fast, very fast. But the speed was all he had; he had no sense, no other defences; he was clearly accustomed to taking, and running, and counting on the drink-addled wits or poor reflexes of his targets to save him. His hand closed around the bone handle of the knife and Uncas let him clear it, before he captured Ben's forearm himself and found a pressure point. Ben's hand went nerveless and uncurled, dropping the knife.

"Pick it up," Uncas said, letting him go. Ben's mouth formed a round shape of surprise and discomfort. He stooped and warily fished the knife out of the pooling mud, then, after a moment, held it out, not meeting the other's eyes.

"Put it back and do it again."

Ben's eyes flashed resentment now. He slipped the weapon back in the sheath and gave an impatient sigh as if to indicate that he knew the game; but this time, when he went for the knife, Uncas let him take it, making no move to intercept.

Now Ben looked doubtful, holding the knife between his thumb and forefinger uncertainly.

"More," Uncas said.

Ben repeated the move a few times, irritation radiating from his tense body. Uncas continued to vary his responses; sometimes intercepting the weapon before Ben could get hold of it, sometimes allowing him to clear it. Once Ben had the knife halfway back to himself by the time Uncas' hand came after it and there was a flash of triumphant light in the boy's face-until he realized that that, too, had been purposeful and the Mohegan warrior was, at least from his point of view, taunting him. Emotion ravaged the boy's features; he contorted his mouth in anger and flung the knife to the side, and spat out a few words in his own language. The expression of _do not want_-in whatever form it had come out, polite or otherwise-was clear enough.

Uncas frowned. "Have you just learned to walk, that you have so little self-control? We do not throw tools nor weapons about like a petulant cub, _Xanikw_."

Ben breathed deeply, his eyes fiery. "I don't know that word meaning."

"Squirrel," Uncas said. "Now pick the knife up. And do it some more. Do it until you do not again want to take that which is not yours."

He knew, of course, that it wouldn't be that easy. But this was only the first lesson, and those were, after all, often the hardest.


	3. Chapter 3

Nathaniel, balancing on a rather rickety handmade ladder, slapped clay and moss into the crevices between the logs of the new cabin roof. It had rained for a day and a night without ceasing, but on the following morning the weather had cleared to merely sullen skies.

He was glad to be back at work. Alice and Cora had both been preternaturally quiet during the rain break. Uncas had explained to Nathaniel that Alice had finally discovered the truth about their father and would probably need a little time to herself for a while. Ben, while prompt to respond to any duty required of him had developed the wariness of an oft-whipped dog (although Uncas maintained he had not handed out any unduly harsh punishment), and avoided everyone. Altogether, the atmosphere in the cabin had been at its least pleasant in some time, and it was with some amount of relief that the men returned to their work after breakfast the next day. Cabin-building was, at least, straightforward and uncomplicated, free of female vapors or adolescent furors.

Uncas remarked casually from below, as he passed up a basket with more chinking materials, "I'd expected Father to revisit by now."

"Mm." Nathaniel used the end of a sharpened stick to poke bulging moss deeper into the seams. That thought had occurred to him more than once throughout the spring and summer: why _hadn't_ their father returned? Most likely Chingachgook was staying away on purpose, giving the two couples the time and space he thought they needed. But Nathaniel had also had the uncomfortable awareness that their parent was no longer young and could not be expected to make such lengthy journeys on his own with ease. He did not want to say as much to Uncas, although his brother had likely come to the same conclusion himself.

"We could go to him," Uncas said, "but..."

"It wouldn't be fair to the women, not when they're getting ready to settle in their own homes."

Uncas looked thoughtful and picked up a stalk of wheat grass, rubbing it between his fingers. "Then there's the boy."

"Who's _not_ ready to settle."

"I'm working on that."

"Well, you might have to work faster. He actually seems to be getting less sociable."

Uncas refrained from pointing out that Nathaniel could have, and arguably should have, left Ben in Albany. "He's smart enough to learn. Just not disciplined."

"Mm. I think Cora has been spoiling him since we got back. She was soft-hearted about him from the beginning."

"Well, soft-hearted won't help him where he's going to be living." Uncas thought of Chingachgook's sister, his aunt, who enjoyed being unpleasant to her relatives; how less well would she treat a half-breed outsider who flouted the ways of their people?

Nathaniel smiled as he turned back to his work. He had thought the job of helping Ben re-integrate into wolf camp society would be mainly his and Cora's; it had not occurred to him that Uncas would decide to take such an active role. Perhaps that was the way it should be. Certainly Uncas had a far better command of the mutual language of Delaware. And Uncas was the boy's only connection, however distant, to the culture and customs of his mother; it was just as well that he take Ben in hand. Nathaniel made a mental note to speak to Cora later and advise her not to interfere with Uncas's methods. Though he loved his wife, he couldn't deny that her tendency was to want to be involved in everything.

* * *

Over the next week Uncas began a pattern of finding time to spend with Ben, despite his junior's obvious antipathy to such overtures. He came home earlier than Nathaniel in the evenings and had a reading lesson with Ben, to which the boy submitted with poor grace, and in which he usually mangled the words of the text to such an extent that even Alice demanded of Uncas that surely something simpler could be found (to this criticism Uncas responded serenely that it mattered not what they read, but that Ben found the discipline to do it; and Alice could not argue with this).

In the mornings, Uncas rose in the pre-dawn and dragged his unwilling apprentice outdoors where he found some monotonous task or skill for him to perform, most often something in which he knew Ben could see no purpose. (What could possibly be the point of piling acorns for the squirrels to knock over and steal? Why should he have to scrape useless scraps of fur free of hair and leave them for the birds to line their nests with?) Finally, however, Uncas set Ben a task that seemed to have some practical application: catching fish. He showed him where the fish could be found sunning themselves, their vacant eyes opaque, their bodies glistening as they lingered, almost motionless, in the shallow waters of the stream. He showed by example how to lie down on the bank, waiting just as still, with his arm outstretched, dangling near the water, until the fish swam close enough to be captured.

Ben tried to imitate him in his stillness, but wasn't successful. He squirmed and breathed too noisily. Uncas watched him with some amusement, wondering how the boy had managed to survive by thievery, even taking into consideration the comparatively poor acuity of the European townspeople. A Delaware child half his age would have been able to lie as still as he did.

A quarter of an hour passed while they waited. The mist was slowly beginning to dissipate off the surface of the water, and the rose-colored sky was turning cream as the sun advanced higher. Ben twitched as a tiny fly buzzed around the back of his neck. His arm, stretched over the point at which the soil fell away to the water, began to tremble with the effort of holding it there. Three small fish were close by, just inches below the surface. Ben suddenly pulled his arm back, wincing, and slapping at the spot on his neck. The fish shot away.

Biting his lip in frustration, Ben rubbed at the bug bite and cast a sideways glance at Uncas, who said nothing. Sighing, he extended his arm out over the water again to wait.

It took longer this time for the fish to come back. The two of them had arisen before breakfast, but by now Nathaniel had surely left to work on the cabin. Uncas lay patiently on his stomach beside Ben, his own arm outstretched over the water, demonstrating what perfect stillness should look like. It made no difference to him how long they had to keep vigil.

At last two fish returned; speckled mouths opening and closing, they meandered up towards the surface. Uncas could tell Ben was holding his breath this time, determined not to let anything distract him. His concentration had improved, though it was as yet unremarkable. Minutes passed. A fish inched forward until it was almost directly underneath Ben's hand.

Uncas brought his own thumb and forefinger together and flicked the surface of the water. With a flash of burnished scales the fish darted out of sight.

Ben shot upright almost as quickly as the fish had disappeared, frustration contorting his features. "Why do that?" he yelled in English.

"So you know what it is to labor for something that is taken despite your work." Uncas climbed to his feet.

Ben stared at him, hands curling at his sides, plainly recalling the past few days of what he had thought were meaningless tasks. "Everything we did?"

Uncas rotated shoulder muscles that had been inert for nearly the last two hours, confirming with his expression. "There was much your mother did not teach you."

"Mother told me..." He sounded as if the words were choking him. "Do anything to live. Not because I like to take! I want to get...to earn...but my mother said to take. Just to _live_."

"Then she was wrong. Living as a thief is worse than being dead. A dirty camp dog. You cannot be a camp dog if you want to live among the wolf people."

"You are wolf people?" Ben demanded bitterly.

"There are not many of us left. But the Delaware are my cousins. They will not take a thief into their homes. Why would they? They have honor. You will have to sleep with the dogs and have food thrown in front of you."

Ben's eyes were hostile but becoming watery. "Don't care how food comes."

"You didn't, before," Uncas said, moving past him to go back to the cabin, "but you do now."

* * *

Alice slipped outdoors in the early evening for a breath of fresh air. The cabin, as it usually did during these hot days, smelled of cooking and woodsmoke. Her head ached a little and she wanted some exercise. And she did not particularly want to listen to Ben and Uncas' reading lesson.

She had come to realize sometime in the last few weeks that the fact of her father's death was something she had accepted earlier, though she knew not how exactly or when. It was no longer a surprise. She knew, too, that she should grant her sister forgiveness so that things might return to normal between them. It was not as if they did not interact; they could hardly ignore each other in such close quarters. But they both sensed the distance. Still, Alice was not fully prepared to release Cora from her part in keeping such a long secret.

Nathaniel had announced quite casually at breakfast that morning that the new cabin was finished and ready for its future occupants to move in. The building lacked furniture, Nathaniel explained, which they would eventually construct, but the roof, chimney and front door were all in place and it was therefore eminently habitable. Later, Cora had remarked hesitantly to Alice that they would likely be moving down within the next couple of days, and would be taking some of the food supplies and general cabin goods, if that suited. Alice had politely replied that that would be fine and she would help them bring down anything they required to set up housekeeping. The conversation had ended thus, on a rather awkward note.

Alice inhaled deeply of the flower-scented air, willing it to clear her head and sharpen her senses. The new moon was almost here. She remembered Uncas' promise to set aside time for her. Well, it had not exactly been a promise; if it had been, she was sure he would have kept it. She tried to be philosophical. Shortly Cora and Nathaniel and Ben would have moved out and then she and Uncas would have all the time they could possibly want to be alone together, and she would probably be missing the company of the others before very long.

Alice's eye caught the motion of a dark shadow slipping rapidly in and among the trees; it took her a few moments to realize must be one of the men coming back, but only another instant passed before she realized it was neither Nathaniel nor Uncas. Fear knifed through her insides and she turned to run, thinking her only chance was to get back to the cabin and bolt the door before she was caught up with; but she was not close enough—the intruder overtook her almost immediately, grabbing her arm. She meant to scream but only a hoarse squeak came out of her mouth when she was turned and faced with the bronze features of a young Indian man. He said something hushed and urgent and she realized, although her heart still pounded uncontrollably, that she recognized him. It had been nearly a year since she'd met him at the wolf camp; the brother-in-law of Tiskemanis, Uncas' cousin.

He touched her hair briefly and then gave her head an awkward pat of reassurance, letting go of her arm. "Uncas," he questioned. "Na-tan-yel."

"They are inside," Alice said, struck with shyness, wishing she had been able to recognize him sooner.

Nachenum tipped his head back and uttered a low animal-like call. There was an answering one from inside and the cabin door in the distance opened, spilling a small rectangle of light in their direction. Uncas and Nathaniel both loped up, Nathaniel clasping the forearm of their relative in greeting while Uncas swung Alice aside, scanning her face because he could see that she had been frightened, if only for a few moments.

Nathaniel and Nachenum were already on their way back to the cabin, where Cora and Ben stood in the doorway curiously. Uncas took Alice's hand and pulled her behind a tree. He put his thumbs up against her cheekbones. "You shouldn't have been that far out of the clearing."

"I'm all right," she whispered, embarrassed but with a heady warmth blossoming in her stomach. With him so busy, and lately spending most of the rest of his time with Ben, she had forgotten how good it felt to have his absolute attention, to have the intensity of his gaze focused completely on her.

"No," Uncas said. His eyes said,_ I have not been careful enough with you._ Twining his hands in her hair, he leaned in to kiss her. It was a quick, sweet kiss of regret for yet another delay. They lingered just for a few moments before going back in to hear Nachenum's news, which, since it had taken so long to get to them, must be heard at once.

Inside, Cora filled one of their precious china teacups that had been so carefully packed on the trip up from Albany, and brought it to Nachenum. The delicately painted cup looked incongruous in the large brown hand of the young warrior, who, to Alice's eyes at least, still seemed somewhat barbarous in appearance, with his decorated scalplock and shaven head, his unfamiliar facial tattoos. Even the cast of his features should have reminded her of the similarities between him and Uncas but actually made her think of their differences.

* * *

Nachenum drained the tea in one swallow with a smack of appreciation for the spoonful of sugar Cora had added, set down the cup and turned to Uncas.

"Your aunt is ill," he said without preamble. "Since the fish moon. Your father wants you to journey to the camp. He did not want to leave her, so I offered to come in his place."

"That was done well," Uncas said, echoed at almost the same time by Nathaniel. It was a ritual phrase offered to show formal appreciation for a service. "How long did your trip take? Where have you settled this season?"

Nachenum crouched by the hearth and drew a rough map in the ashes spilled there, showing his estimation of where they were now, and whence he had come. A long snaky line represented the Mohawk river. His finger stabbed, showing the approximate location of last year's camp, and now, far southeast of it, the current location of the Delaware. "This is the sixth night since I left," he said.

"That's halfway to Albany," Nathaniel muttered. He looked at Uncas, both of them trying to determine how long it would take them with the women and any supplies. At least twice as long. But leaving them at the cabins could not be in question, and Chingachgook clearly wanted both his sons in attendance at the camp as soon as possible.

"Is_ Nohkumihs_ very sick?" Uncas inquired at last.

Nachenum passed his hand over the impromptu map, reducing it to a blur, and wiping the dust on his leggings. "I don't know. She has been given all the medicines we have, but does not get better. Will you come?" It was a rhetorical question, since there was clearly no other answer to give but yes.

"We can't be ready before tomorrow," Nathaniel said, looking at Cora and Alice who were busying themselves with cabin chores and pretending not to be interested in the conversation taking place which they couldn't understand. He was not looking forward to telling them they had to undertake another journey. Alice might not mind so much, having been in one place all the winter and spring, but he was quite sure that Cora was more than ready to settle into their new home. He took a deep breath and held it for a few moments, considering how best to tell her that their plans were going to have to be delayed—possibly by months.

"Who's that?" Nachenum said suddenly, having noticed Ben, who had slunk into the cabin with his usual demeanor of a beaten pup, giving the newcomer a glance with no more interest than wary caution in it.

"Half-blood Munsee," Nathaniel said, factually. "We were hoping to bring him to the camp eventually...just not quite yet."

Nachenum stared at Ben. "Doesn't have much in the way of manners. Come here, youngster."

Ben, not understanding the former part of Nachenum's comment but knowing it hadn't been complimentary, came forwards, his head cocked suspiciously.

"Greet him," Uncas rebuked. "He is your elder and better."

Ben muttered a glum Delaware greeting and bent his neck unwillingly to receive Nachenum's hand.

"Unlikely little beggar, isn't he?" Nachenum remarked, but with good humor, resting his hand for a moment on the boy's tangled dark head in acknowledgement. He could afford to be kind, Uncas thought, given that he had only recently come into manhood himself; Uncas remembered several summers ago that his Delaware cousin had seemed similarly unprepossessing.

"Go wash up, _Xanikw._" Uncas dismissed Ben, who was only too quick to comply.

Nachenum stretched then in front of the fire like a lazy cat, saying that he needed to catch up on some sleep. It was not long before their relative's breathing had slowed and deepened. Uncas brought him a deerskin, then turned to Alice, who was sitting at the table, watching Nachenum curiously.

"I think he has grown more from last summer," she said. "He is even taller now."

Seeing Uncas' elevated eyebrow, she blushed and said quickly, to hide her confusion, "But why has he come?"

"Yes, what news?" Cora echoed, drying dishes from their meal and setting them on the shelf.

Uncas looked at Nathaniel.

"It is not good news," Nathaniel said, after a slight pause. "Father's sister, our aunt, is unwell."

Cora in her turn took a moment to digest this information. "That is too bad, but surely Nachenum didn't come all this way just to tell us so?"

"They are not going to understand, Brother," Uncas said calmly in Mohegan, with the air of a man looking on storm clouds gathering.

Nathaniel grunted.

Alice said, "Could the two of you please not do that?"

Surprised, they all looked at her.

"Talk about us and then make that...that sound," she clarified, defensively.

Cora smiled at the unexpectedness of this.

"Father wants us to come," Nathaniel explained.

There was silence following this revelation.

"Us?" Alice said in a small voice.

"Oh, no," Cora said, in the same moment. Her mouth was tight. "No, he cannot expect us...We are getting ready to move into our house, Nathaniel!"

"I am aware of that, wife," Nathaniel said, with cautious patience. "But Uncas and I cannot leave the two of you here alone. It is not under consideration. At all."

"We would be all right." Alice's voice was still tiny. "We have Ben; he is old enough to be of some help. You could leave us one of the rifles. I could learn to shoot it."

The other three all stared at her, none of them having expected this suggestion to come from her direction. At last Nathaniel said, "Ben has to go to the wolf people in any case; it would just be sooner than we planned to bring him now. That can't be helped. Alice, your attitude is...commendable, but as I said, the two of you staying behind is out of the question."

Cora took a steadying breath. "Husband, I will of course submit to your authority in this matter, but you cannot decide unilaterally what Alice and Uncas must do—"

"I am not making any one-sided decisions. Uncas is with me." Nathaniel looked at his brother, who gave an infinitesimal nod of the head.

A few moments passed. "Very well," Cora said quietly. "When do we leave?"

"Tomorrow. As soon as you can be ready." Nathaniel crossed over to where they kept the weapons, taking down his rifle which would need cleaning and re-assembly. Over his shoulder he said: "Take everything that you need, but as little as you can. There is no way to know how long we will be gone."

Alice ran her fingers along the wood of the table top, trying to catch Uncas' eye, but he wouldn't look at her. She looked at the lean sleeping body of Nachenum, thinking how quickly, once again, everything had changed.


	4. Chapter 4

Rain poured down from the heavens, rendering the landscape into little more than multiple shades of white and grey. Above, a roll of thunder sounded ominously, suggesting that there was more inclement weather in store for the six wayfarers. Nachenum was in the lead of their small procession, followed by Nathaniel. Ben and Cora were behind, each bearing a light pack of supplies. Alice was a few paces after the two, and Uncas was at the back, keeping close enough to Alice that he could assist her.

He couldn't tell how she felt about the trip they were undertaking. Last night she had indicated she wanted to stay—which had surprised him as much as it had the others—but today she didn't seem to be sulking that she had not gotten her way. Perhaps she was just hiding it well.

His brother's wife was definitely angry, Uncas didn't need to see Cora's face to be able to tell that; it read in every line of her stiff back and determined steps. In a way, he thought, this journey was mirroring their first one into the forest together.

He could only hope it would be less eventful.

Striding closer to Alice, he took her arm, slowing her. "Cold?"

She shook her head, looking up at him under wet-lashed, guileless grey eyes. The hood of her cloak had slipped back over her shoulders, revealing damp hair curled in tendrils around her forehead and face. Her breath came out in little foggy puffs in the humidity of the air. He wanted to pull her into his arms, but natural reticence prevented him from doing so, out here in the middle of the day where they were not alone. He settled instead for a brief squeeze of her fingers, interlocking them with his and proceeding at her side, as they followed the trail made by the others.

They stopped to make camp by late afternoon on the first day, as the women were unused to the travel. The rain had slackened off, but they were all soaked nonetheless. Uncas sent Ben off in search of dry tinder or kindling, as he and Nachenum began the lengthier than normal process of making a fire. Meanwhile, Nathaniel was working on creating a tiny temporary shelter so that Cora and Alice could change into dry clothing in privacy.

"Keep an eye on that boy for me," Uncas said to Nachenum. "He's a reforming thief. Don't leave anything shiny where he can see it."

"Sure he's not half Huron?" Nachenum inquired.

Uncas grunted in appreciation of the jest. "He's not much of anything yet, but I'm trying to teach him."

Ben eyed them as he returned and deposited armfuls of moss and dried bark that would help to kindle the fire. Cora bade him to come sit with her and eat, and he obeyed.

The fire, once established, chased away the shadows that were growing around the nearby trees and bushes, blurring their outlines until they were merely dark shapes. There was no sun to set, just the grey sky, turning as purple as a bruise until the color deepened to black entirely.

Alice approached Uncas almost diffidently. "I'm a little tired," she murmured.

"Sleep," he said, holding out his arm.

Alice glanced at the others. Cora was brushing out her long hair, her face partially hidden by the curtain it provided. Nachenum was crouched on the opposite side of the fire looking inscrutable, and Nathaniel was nearby, watching Cora who was ignoring him. Ben was already blinking, heavy-eyed, curled up on a deerskin a few paces away from the fire. At last, having decided no one was interesting in observing them, Alice settled down beside Uncas, allowing him to pull her against his side. With a happy sigh she rested her face against his chest, sliding her arm around him, giving a murmur of contentment that made him want to provoke more such sounds, though that would have to wait till they could really be alone.

"You two look comfortable," Nachenum said, at some point after the others had all drifted off—or were giving every evidence of having done so, if they were not actually asleep.

"Mm."

"There is a girl back at camp." Nachenum tossed another stick on the fire.

Uncas tucked the cloak more securely around Alice. Unvoiced was the ambivalence he knew Nachenum felt about the mentioned woman. He said nothing.

"But I don't know. How did _you_ know?"

"I knew."

His young Delaware relative considered that for a while. "One girl is much like another," he said, waiting for Uncas to disagree with him.

Uncas said tranquilly, "No doubt you are right."

Nachenum looked momentarily taken aback by this. "Do you think so?"

"I think this girl is different," Uncas amended, "but then, she is English. Get some rest, _nexisemes_. I will wake you for the second watch, and Nathaniel will take the third." He shifted Alice a little lower on his chest, and felt with his other hand for his tomahawk, assuring that it was right within his grasp should anything untoward occur while he guarded their small party.

But the night passed peacefully, free of any disturbances.

* * *

Cora, rubbing the instep of her foot, wondered how she could ever have thought these boots were comfortable at their time of purchasing in Albany that spring. They were sensible, low-heeled, and should have been eminently practical. Cora had a blister on one heel and both feet ached unreasonably. Alice, she noticed, had switched to wearing summer moccasins the way Uncas and Nathaniel did, but she could not get used to those.

_I could be in my own cabin right now...stitching curtains for the window...or sitting with a cup of tea._ It was so hard not to resent being on the trail, and this was only their third day; so much more of the journey still lay ahead. She eased her foot back to the ground and straightened her back. The fallen log upon which she had chosen to sit was not the most comfortable of seats, but it would do for the extent of their break.

Alice had found a stump amidst a small field of wildflowers and ferns, which grew so high that her seated form was barely visible, only her pale hair gleaming through in the mid-daylight. Cora could see none of the men, but she assumed at least one or two of them were nearby. Nathaniel, Nachenum and Uncas were all alike in that they never seemed to need breaks when the sisters and Ben did, preferring instead to explore the area or plot out paths of easiest going so that when they returned to the women they could all be on their way faster from then on. Nachenum, in particular, had taken to scouting the area several hours ahead and waiting for them to catch up by evening, usually having a fire and food ready by that time.

"Eat?" Ben asked hopefully, falling on his knees in front of Cora. The food that was portioned out in the morning and at night never seemed to satisfy him, and Cora had gotten into the habit of giving him snacks throughout the day. She usually waited until the men were not in attendance, however, or at least not clearly watching—none of them approved of her indulgence of him.

Cora glanced around now, quickly, to ensure they were all out of sight and then dug in her pack for a chunk of _pumihkan, _that strange Indian concoction, the taste of which she could never accustom herself to, though it did work to fill one's stomach. Ben ate the offering avidly. She reminded him to say thank you, and he did, but, as always, giving off an unconcerned air as if it were of no consequence whether he thanked her or not.

She felt bad for Ben. He had had little enough happiness in his past and it didn't appear as though his future was going to be any easier. As it had been her suggestion originally that he be brought from Albany, she felt responsible for what happened to the Dutch-Munsee boy. She had thought several times that she could ask Nathaniel if Ben might not stay on with them, but she was certain her husband would deny such a request, even though Ben had never disobeyed any order that had been given to him. Cora knew that Nathaniel would argue that Ben had not shown any evidence of fitting in, and that he resisted using the languages they were trying to teach him.

Cora started to repack the remaining bit of food and then decided to offer her sister some. It had been many hours since they had spoken to each other. Limping a little, she made her way over to the fern patch. "Alice. Would you like something to eat?"

Alice looked up a little vaguely. She had been weaving a chain of flowers into her braid. "No, thank you."

Cora felt rebuffed although she knew that had not been the younger woman's intention. There was nothing else for them to talk about, no table to sit at, no tea to offer. Just the wilderness around them: cliffs and valleys and trees; the wind, singing in the tops of the pines; small animals scurrying about in the underbrush. She turned, feeling that Alice had drifted away from her, perhaps into a place that she could not follow.

Equally troubling was that Nathaniel was just as distant; though he enquired as to her well-being regularly throughout the day, ascertained she was not in need of anything at nights and was unfailingly polite, he did not speak to her of anything important. Cora knew that he had not liked that she had spoken so publicly against their going on the night before their departure, though she knew she could not have said anything differently. Perhaps, too, he felt he deserved an apology; but Cora did not think so.

"Sister," Alice said, sounding gentle, and somehow, as if she had been listening to Cora's thoughts: "You should talk to him."

Cora knew there was sense in that; but it was hard to have to take such a suggestion from a younger sibling, whom she still occasionally had difficulty seeing as a woman in her own right; and so she said somewhat snappishly as she half-turned back, "He does not want to talk."

Twirling another long chain of daisies between her slender fingers, Alice murmured: "I have not seen you trying."

"Alice, I thank you for your advice, but it is not that simple."

Alice's eloquent silence suggested that it might be.

Cora felt a sharp, unreasonable twinge of anger. Her sister seemed to have adopted the Indian way of communicating much by saying nothing. "In any case, what could you possibly know of the hardships between a husband and wife? You are not married—"

She faltered, seeing the grey eyes of the other widen. For an instant Cora thought to apologize, but Alice scrambled to her feet, daisies tumbling from her skirts as she did so, and darted away into the ferns, which parted to admit her and closed behind her, swirling lacy fingers in her wake.

Cora felt tears of frustration well up in her eyes, knowing that the breach between them she had hoped to have mended by now had just broken open again.

* * *

Uncas was backtracking, having left Nachenum to go on ahead and find a spot to spend the night. The young Delaware warrior was obviously longing to cover more ground in less time; that he had not realized the women would slow them down as much as they did was clear to Uncas, though Nachenum had not said anything to that effect. Uncas, for his part, was content just to be in the woods again. After a winter spent so close to home, it was a gift to be able to watch the changing moods of the skies, to move through the forest surrounded by humming life, and to sleep at nights under the canopy of new trees.

He found Alice first, amid the tall ferns, and was about to reprove her for having left the company of Cora and Ben, when she asked in a subdued voice if they might go on ahead of the others. Deciding he could wait to find out why, he whistled to Nathaniel, further back in the bush, to let him know what they were doing. He shouldered both their packs (although Alice protested that she could carry hers, she looked pale and slightly unwell to his eyes) and they moved out.

With Nachenum several hours ahead, and Cora, Nathaniel and Ben following some distance behind, they were able to have the illusion, at least, of solitude, and Alice started to relax, even giving Uncas a wan smile as he took her hand and helped her over sprawling, rocky terrain and up steep hills.

Some time later, they paused by a clear stream to drink from its depths and replenish their water supplies. Alice splashed some water on her face and neck. The mid-afternoon heat was at its peak. Not far off was a massive willow providing some shade, its tendrils trailing down into the stream, and Uncas laid their packs in its shade, gesturing for Alice to come.

"We shouldn't stop long," she said faintly. "The others will get ahead."

"Eat something." He pulled some dried meat out of the journeybag and offered it to her. Alice took it without argument. After it was gone she drank some more water and then rested her arms on her drawn-up knees and stared out across the stream.

Uncas touched the back of her neck, noting that it had gotten too much sun. He pulled her hair free of the braid. Daisies, wilted and curled like starfish, tumbled out of it.

"Why did you do that," she said without interest.

"You're starting to burn."

"I don't care," she mumbled childishly.

"You will tonight, when it hurts."

She sighed, as if to admit he was right. Her hair fell forward, obscuring her face, as she tucked her chin into her knees and hugged them. She said nothing.

"What is troubling you?" he said, after a little while.

"How do you know something is troubling me?"

"I have eyes, _Wiyon-ashay_. Which I use."

She threw him a rather mournful look. "I wish we were back home."

Uncas tried not to show his pleasure that she had used that term. He lay down, bringing his head around close to her feet so he could look up into her face.

"Couldn't we go back?"

"No," he said.

Alice shuffled her feet in the ground somewhat resentfully. "Why not?"

Uncas gazed at the clouds scattered above for a few moments. "I think you know."

"Because we are not free to do as we please?"

"Ignoring our responsibilities to our families would not make us free."

"I don't have any family," Alice said.

"That is a foolish thing to say," he said, amiably. "What of Cora? What of Nathaniel?"

"How is Nathaniel my family?" Alice asked, sitting fully upright.

Uncas saw that her eyes were glistening and sensed that they were getting to whatever had made her upset. "He is your brother two times over."

"In England he is only my brother in _law_. Once." Her eyes dared him to persist.

"We are not in England," Uncas reminded obligingly.

"But if we _were_ in England you and I would be nothing to each other." Alice's voice caught.

"Wouldn't we?" He sat up, the motion suddenly bringing their faces only inches apart. She stared at him, her eyes large with doubt and hurt.

"Do you think that you could be nothing to me?" he demanded.

"By...by law."

"I don't care about English laws."

Her eyelashes fluttered down.

"_Manto, Wiyon-ashay,_ I begin to grow tired of asking you this question. Do you belong to me or not?"

Alice scrambled to her feet, and he was up on his own just as soon as she was, staring down at her, the question hanging in the air between them.

"Cora said—"

Her lips were trembling.

"Yes," he said, summoning up yet more forbearance.

"...we are not married."

Uncas thought this was a plainly absurd observation for anyone to make. He almost said so, but from the look of absolute misery on Alice's face he could see that it was in no way funny to her.

"Well," he said finally, deciding that the fastest way out of this was the most direct. "She is right. We are not."

Alice burst into tears.


	5. Chapter 5

Nathaniel was following the trail made by Uncas and Alice. If the two of them wanted to be alone—for he had to assume that was the reason Uncas had signaled they were going on ahead—it would probably be best if he took a parallel path, but he opted not to do so. For one thing, they were going along a ridge that was the most direct route to a valley below, and choosing a different approach would involve rockier terrain and require more time. He decided the best he could do was make sure they were noisy enough so that no one was inadvertently caught _in flagrante delicto_. Nathaniel was fairly sure that his brother had better sense than to romance Alice on the trail in broad daylight, but it never hurt to take precautions.

He glanced back at Cora and Ben, who were some paces behind him, and tried not to think about how much faster he could move without them. When they were all together, it was easier to accept that a larger group naturally had to take more time to get where it was going, but with just his wife and the boy to consider it made him feel, perhaps unfairly, that they tied him down.

Adding to his desire to cover ground quickly was the knowledge that Chingachgook would hold him responsible should he deprive his aunt of the chance to see her nephews for the last time, if she were truly that ill. They might safely have left Ben and the women behind at the cabin, after all; but he and Uncas would never had have a moment's peace not knowing for certain. Nathaniel just hoped _Nohkumihs_ would have the decency not to die until they reached the camp. It occurred to him in passing that this was not a very filial sentiment; but then, he had never been sentimental about Chingachgook's sister: she who had never forgotten, as many of the others seemed to, that he was born of white parents.

Cora hailed him to stop, and he doubled back. "What is it?"

"Let's rest a little and eat," she said, but when he agreed and they pulled out their food supplies he saw at once that she had barely a mouthful's worth, giving the larger portion to Ben.

Nathaniel frowned. "You're letting him have too much. We have a long way ahead of us."

"He's growing," Cora said, a thread of tension in her tone. "He needs it."

"The boy should get used to having just his share. He won't get any more than that when we reach our people."

Ben quickly chewed and swallowed the remainder of the food that had been in his hand lest Nathaniel have any notions of taking it away from him, then darted away among the cover of trees.

"Nathaniel..." Cora swiped a hand across her forehead, streaking it slightly with dirt, and lowered her voice. "Why do you and Uncas insist on making the camp sound like such an unpleasant prospect? You know it will already be hard enough for me to leave him there."

"Because if the lad doesn't learn a few things, Cora, it will be no more pleasant for him there than it was in Albany. I believe I told you that back in the winter, but you were still determined to bring him," Nathaniel reminded.

"And since you are so discouraging, I am starting to doubt my choice." Cora bent her head.

"We have to be realistic about what kind of life a boy like that is going to lead."

"He is _just_ a boy," Cora cried. "He is no monster, nor criminal-"

"Not very far from being the latter," Nathaniel said, feeling contrary.

"I think you are being absolutely horrid about this, Nathaniel."

Nathaniel rose to his feet, cradling his rifle in his arms. He whistled for Ben, whom he could hear tromping about in the underbrush. "Let's get going," he ordered. "Nachenum will be expecting us before nightfall."

* * *

The patch of spiky raspberry canes studded with tiny ripe fruit was an unexpected but welcome discovery. Alice had begged Uncas to leave her alone for a little while and he could scarcely deny this request; he was relieved, even, and hoped his absence would enable her to regain control of her emotions. If there were anything more baffling in the universe than a crying woman, he had not yet encountered it. As he roamed the area looking for a distraction, he discovered the berry bushes, and occupied himself by picking handfuls of the raspberries, which he tucked away carefully into a corner of his supply bag. They would make a nice peace offering, though he was not sure if a grander gesture would be required. There was no time for such a venture, anyway.

Uncas ate a few of the remaining berries from the patch, but was too distracted to fully appreciate their tart, sun-warmed flavor. He was recalling that Alice had not actually answered the question he'd posed to her. He had thought that it was clear to both of them what their relationship was; the events of the winter had hastened that realization; the incident with the British soldier, where she could have left him; the night spent at the lake, where they established not only an emotional but physical connection; and all the hours in the cabin thereafter together, up until the spring. Evidently, despite all that, Alice retained misgivings about the nature of their union.

He wondered now if she were always going to feel this way; that what they had was not legitimate simply because it could not be recognized by the laws of her country. The thought troubled him; it forced him to consider something that had been lurking at the back of his mind for some time.

Perhaps he needed to let her go—it might even be necessary to push her away. As distasteful as the idea was, it might be the only thing that enabled Alice to seek him out.

_I don't know if I could do that. Manto...she would not understand. She would think it meant I was giving her up—when all I want is to give her a chance to choose me_. Uncas rubbed a hand over his face in uncharacteristic frustration. Chingachgook had told him that with the coming of spring they would both know what they meant to each other. Apparently his father had been wrong about that.

_But he also said that she was not ready—that we should wait. Would things have been different, if we had? Was he right all along?_

He had been prepared to face his father, secure in the knowledge that he and Alice were completely of one mind in their decision to further their relationship, though Chingachgook had warned against it—but coming to him now, with a partner so clearly unsettled in her feelings, seemed like folly.

At least they weren't expecting a child. He supposed that was something to be thankful for.

* * *

By the time all of them had reached Nachenum's stopping point for the night, it was later than usual. Uncas and Alice had gotten there an hour ahead of Cora, Ben and Nathaniel; and by the time the latter three were entering camp, the first stars had already begun to glow faintly above. Nachenum looked proud of himself, for not only had he discovered a pleasant mossy glade for them to camp in, he had a roaring fire over which he had almost finished roasting a freshly-caught rabbit. He bid them come and eat, although no one was much in the mood to appreciate the preparations. Alice had shrouded herself in her cloak and was not talking; Cora dropped to the ground some distance away and likewise wrapped a cloak around her shoulders and sank into it, turning her back to the fire. Ben, moodily, sat down and looked at the rabbit.

Nachenum tore off a hunk of meat that he had already speared on a knife for his own consumption and handed it over to Ben. "Here, eat that, _Xanikw_."

Ben made a face at the other male's appropriation of Uncas's nickname for him, but quickly accepted the offering and devoured it.

"What's everyone so gloomy about?" Nachenum inquired. "I was thinking we could have a story tonight, but you all look like dead fish."

Uncas said, "The women did not want to come." He did not want to share the details of what Cora had said to Alice so he merely added that the sisters had been having words and were each a little the worse for it. Nathaniel supplemented this information by commenting that Cora was worrying over Ben.

Nachenum suddenly straightened, and went over to his pack and began digging through it. "I just remembered," he said, plucking out a very wrinkled and begrimed letter. "This has been at the camp for some time now. It's for them."

Nathaniel turned the letter over in his fingers as Uncas looked on. It was addressed in a spidery hand to the Misses Munro, care of Col. George Munro, Fort Oswego. The contents were brief and did not strike Nathaniel as particularly important as he glanced over them: it seemed to be from a relative or a friend of the father's, welcoming the girls to America, asking Cora about her wedding plans and wanting to know how long they planned to stay with their father at the fort. At the end of the letter the writer included an Albany address where she urged the girls to stop by if they ever came back to the city. The letter was dated August of the previous year.

"Nothing especially interesting," Nathaniel said, handing the letter to his brother to look over. Uncas did so and folded it back up. He glanced over at Cora and Alice, who both appeared to be sleeping, thinking they would want to have it. It might mean something to them to know they possibly had a relative in the country; that they were not completely alone. He thought too of Alice's assertion that she had no family; and he tucked the letter into his journeybag, meaning to give it to her if and when an appropriate moment presented itself.

They sat around the fire, then, until darkness had settled, partaking of the meat while the women slept. Nachenum grew talkative as they ate, and began to relay some of the news from the wolf camp, the happenings of the winter and spring; the new area that they had settled in was rich in wildlife and there was more than enough food for all. His second nephew had been named Tachquoch (turtle) because he was so slow to walk; and the older one was being taught to pull a tiny bow. All was generally well with most of the families, Nachenum concluded, other than the illness of Chingachgook's sister. He speculated that the travel to the new location had been too much for her.

"Why did you go so far?" Nathaniel wanted to know. He could not remember the Delaware camp ever having been this much of a distance from his father's cabin.

Nachenum crunched bones between his strong teeth. "The people wanted to be closer to the Wampanoag settlements for trading. More news passes through. Also, that location hadn't been inhabited for some time, so the river is choked with fish."

"Hm." Nathaniel thought that he would be happy when they relocated again, further north where they were meant to be. He didn't think much good could come of increased trading and more contact with Europeans; as far as he could see, all that Europeans spread freely was disease and waste, without evincing much concern for what was going to happen to the land once they had had their use of it.

He looked over at Ben, who was licking grease from his fingers. "Boy speaks some Dutch, which might be useful since you've moved closer to the towns. That's mostly the language of commerce in Albany these days."

"I haven't heard him say much in any language," Nachenum said, following his gaze.

"He knows more than he lets on," Uncas put in, knowing that Ben understood this. "_Xanikw_, say something useful."

Ben stared at them each in turn with some defiance, aware that he was being evaluated. "What kind of useful?" he said reluctantly.

"Tell us a story," Nachenum grinned.

"Don't know story."

"Everyone knows a story," the young Delaware scoffed, sharing a glance with Nathaniel and Uncas. "How else would you learn anything?"

"Don't know anything," Ben said stubbornly.

"Well, open your ears and I'll fix that for you." Nachenum tossed another stick on the dying fire, sending sparks spattering up and outwards. He gazed into its light for a minute, considering, and then said, "This story is about a squirrel. Now all squirrels like to collect things and store up for the winter, so they are always busy running around. This squirrel—whose name was Long-Tail—"

"Very inventive," Nathaniel broke in dryly.

Nachenum cocked his head to one side and then looked at Ben. "Did you know that if someone interrupts a story, they have to continue telling it?"

Ben looked mildly interested, despite himself, and glanced at Nathaniel to see if he would comply with this rule.

"Long-Tail—" Nathaniel said, with a rueful smile "—but he went by just plain Xanikw. He used to borrow from the acorn stores of the other squirrels in order to make his the biggest. And then he could spend the afternoons relaxing while the other squirrels, who never noticed that their acorn piles were getting invaded (because squirrels are fast, but they are not very smart) worked trying to resupply. Well, one day the hollow stump that Xanikw stored the acorns in was full, but he thought, "I'll get just a few more," and he stole two more acorns from his neighbor. He crammed them into the stump, and what do you think happened? The stump fell apart into many pieces and all those acorns went spilling over the ground. The other squirrels came running to see what had happened and there was Xanikw, frantically trying to hide all his stolen acorns, but since he could only carry a few at a time, the other squirrels made off with everything else. So Xanikw had to spend a long, hungry winter on his own."

"Bad story," Ben muttered. "Stupid squirrel."

"Know what the story means?" Uncas asked.

"_You_ think—don't steal...but I think—don't live near other squirrels."

Nachenum laughed. "Maybe he really _is_ half Huron."

"Get to sleep," Uncas said, reaching over to give Ben a corrective chuck under the chin; but he noticed that the boy didn't recoil, nor did he seem to resent it greatly. Ben merely wrapped himself in the cloak Cora had made for him, and burrowed down in a bundle before the glowing circle of coals that was all that was left of the fire. Before long his breathing was even and slow.

Nachenum volunteered to take the first watch of that night, and while neither Nathaniel nor Uncas was especially drowsy, they too relaxed in front of the fire, resting, each thinking about tomorrow's travel.

* * *

The younger Munro sister woke to a perfectly silent morning. All around her the glade was soft and damp with morning dew clinging to the greenery; and the sky was streaked with bands of deep violet, pale pink, and faintest yellow, as if an artist had trailed his brush through those colors and painted the heavens with them.

She knew she had gone to sleep alone, wrapped in her cloak; but sometime during the night Uncas had joined her, because she could feel the warmth of his body along her side. Alice shifted carefully, not wanting him to know she was awake; though he probably already did.

Her stomach complained of hunger. As she had not partaken of the previous night's rabbit, her last sustenance had been the raspberries Uncas had brought to her yesterday afternoon. She sat up and fumbled around for her water in her pack next to her. It was warm and tasted like deer-hide.

"Morning," Nathaniel said, startling her. She hadn't seen that he was already up, crouching near the ashes of last night's fire, chewing on some sort of odd pearly-white plant roots that she couldn't recall having seen before.

"Do those taste good?" Alice asked before she could stop herself.

"Mmhh." Nathaniel shook his head. "Want some?"

"Based on that recommendation, not really," Alice murmured, surveying the sleeping bodies of the other travellers. Cora's hair spilled out of her cloak, but she was otherwise still; Ben was completely buried in his, and Nachenum was sleeping, bare-chested, on the ground. She gazed at him, fascinated that he could look so comfortable. After having gotten used to a winter and spring spent on the pine bed, she found that being out on the forest floor was not conducive to a good night's rest.

Nachenum shifted and stretched then, muscles rippling, and Alice quickly averted her gaze from the sleeping warrior, suddenly shy.

"It's going to be hot today," Nathaniel observed, looking at the sky, whose vibrant colors were slowly melting into a creamy yellow.

Alice felt Uncas' hand touch her back and knew he was awake now too. "I would like to wash," she said, aware of just how grubby she felt, and how disheveled she must look, after three days of forest travel. "Is there no water nearby? Even a stream."

Nathaniel posed the question in Delaware to Nachenum, who had seen more of the area than they had, and answered to Alice that while he had not seen water, they should encounter some that day. They would need to, as the drinking water supplies were all getting low. Alice thought that she did not want to drink the stale remainder in her bag, and used what was left of it to splash on her face and hands, though that was insufficient to make her feel fully refreshed.

Cora was last to stir; even Ben had unrolled himself and tumbled from his wrappings like a sleepy cub from a cave mouth before she did. With a wan face and dark eyes suggesting she had not slept well, Cora arose, broke her fast with the rest of them, and then they were on their way.

Nathaniel had been right. As soon as the sun was up the day began to get very hot, and for the first hour or so, it was pleasant enough to tramp through the forest with its shine around them, setting the entire woods aglow; but as the disc climbed higher in the sky, Alice began to feel sweat pooling at the base of her neck again. She hated the feel of her skirts, so heavy, swishing against her legs, and envied the men their breeches and leggings in which they could move so quickly and quietly. It was not fair that Nachenum was not wearing a shirt and that Uncas and Nathaniel could take off theirs whenever they wanted. She tugged at the straps of the pack she carried; the thin deer-hide cut into her shoulders uncomfortably. If she said anything to Uncas, he would take it, but this too was irksome; she didn't want to be completely dependent, that reminded her too much of their first journey together. So Alice tucked her fingers under the straps and bore its weight in silence, though she felt like complaining; and she wanted a cup of hot sweet tea. Though perhaps not as much as her sister did. Cora had always been excessively fond of tea.

At midday they had to stop to rest; the heat had become unbearable to the women—and Ben, though he did not say so, was just as tired, they could see. While the men conferred, Alice sank down under the shade of a fragrant crooked pine. Cora, a little way off, had spread her cloak on a grassy patch in the shade and was now sipping from her waterbag. Alice thought with regret of her own empty one, from which she now would have drunk gratefully had there been any left, and eased the pack off her shoulders with a little sigh for the loss of its weight. She tried to remember what the cold of winter had felt like; what it had been like to step outside the cabin and feel her breath turn icy in her throat, to brush snow from her hair and feel it sting her fingertips with its chill. It was as a dream now, more than a memory.

Nachenum crouched down beside Alice, startling her out of her reverie; she'd not noticed him come over. She blinked, suddenly recalling how alarmed she had been before she'd recognized him outside the cabin those few nights ago.

He held out his waterbag and said something gently—she supposed asking her if she wanted a drink. Or telling her. She murmured, "_Wanishi_," shyly, it being one of the few words of his language she knew.

Only a year ago she wouldn't have been able to imagine sharing the water of a fiercely tattooed, shaven-headed Delaware warrior; but then again, neither would she have been able to imagine that she would be sharing her bed with a soft-spoken, immensely protective Mohegan one. She took the waterbag from Nachenum's hand and sipped some of its contents, suddenly confused by a flood of emotions that she couldn't even put names to.

Nachenum waited until she had finished drinking, then, he reached out for a moment and almost touched a strand of her hair, curiously; then he drew back his hand, while she stared, glancing behind him at Uncas, who had witnessed this brief interaction. Though the moment had been innocent enough, it only added to her confusion. She busied herself with the straps on her pack, and Nachenum rose, turning away, saying something as he rejoined Nathaniel and Uncas.

Though she was no longer the focus of anyone's attention, she still felt herself the object of censure, and it was some time before she regained confidence enough to straighten and announce that she was rested and ready to continue whenever the others were.


	6. Chapter 6

Uncas had gone on ahead after the midday break, taking over Nachenum's role as scout. His intent—to find fresh water—was successful; by early afternoon he had picked up a winding deer path through a mossy swamp that eventually opened up to a body of water that was too big to be a pond, but too small to be called a lake. There was a slight breeze coming across the water from the opposite shore, and though the shoreline was rocky, which might make bathing awkward, the water was clear and looked potable. He bent and tasted it, then refilled his supplies.

Uncas crouched by the water then, looking out across its surface. It would take some time for the others to catch up, as he had been running most of the way except within the swamp, which required more cautious placement of feet if one did not want to sink into its murky depths. He picked up a stone, worn flat and smooth from the constant rippling of water, and sent it dancing across the water, counting six skips before it sank, defeated, with a gurgle. For a while, he watched a hawk that was circling slowly on the wind overhead.

Before long he was aware that Nachenum was coming up behind him, and then joining him at the shore; and for a few moments they both gazed out over the water, neither saying anything. Then Nachenum said: "I know she belongs to you, Cousin."

_Then you know more than she does_, Uncas thought. But he merely said, "It's of no matter."

Nachenum confessed frankly, "I admit she intrigues me."

Uncas did look sideways at him now, not certain what the other man's intent by such a comment was. It could not be a challenge—he had just said that he realized what Alice was to Uncas. Displaying interest in a woman who was spoken for was a breach of etiquette, though by no means unheard of among their people.

For a few moments he was silent, considering this, then said: "You are welcome to get to know her, although she does not speak Delaware, and you do not speak English."

Nachenum grunted. "I already thought of that. You ought to teach her some Delaware."

"I'm teaching Ben English. You could sit in on our lessons."

The other made a face as if he had just tasted a bitter herb. "It's an ugly, strange language. Useful, though, I suppose."

Uncas made a vague sound of assent, and then announced his intention to wash before the others arrived. Nachenum joined him, and shortly thereafter they were disporting in the cool, shallow waters of the lake. Nachenum spent no more time in the water than he needed to get clean; his people were fishermen and viewed water as a place of work and function rather than one of sport or entertainment, but Uncas lingered. He had a leisurely swim out to the shallow reefs in the middle of the lake and back, by which time he noticed that their party had caught up with them and Alice was gingerly picking her way over the shoreline rocks down to the water's edge.

She looked hot and tired and possibly not in the mood for company, depending on how self-conscious she was feeling; so he offered, "Do you want me to come out?"

"No," Alice said, throwing a glance around to see if anyone was in the vicinity, "but just stay over there."

Uncas obligingly remained the twenty or so feet from shore that he was, and, in deference to her sense of modesty, floated and stared up at the sky while she quickly removed her overdress and slid into the water. "Oh," she said with a happy sigh, "that's wonderful."

"Are the others coming?"

"Nathaniel said they would wait over on that hill for a while until we came up. I think I shall stay in here forever." Alice paddled around in circles, staying where her feet could touch the pebbly mud in the shallows near the rocks. Watching her, Uncas remembered clearly the look on her face when they'd had to cross the Mohawk river together; that first moment when she had given him her trust, believing—perhaps only because she had to—that he would keep her safe.

Watching her, he felt sick to think that though she trusted him with her life, she might not trust him with her future.

Watching her, he wanted to bridge the distance between them and kiss her soundly.

Alice splashed in the water like a child, catching up handfuls to pour over her head; her face glistened pale in the sunlight, her arms bare except for the ruffled shoulders of her petticoat; a new one Cora had brought back from Albany. She smiled dreamily, sinking back down into the depths, for those few moments unaware that he was watching her, or not caring. Ripples from her movement made their way over to him.

"I thought you didn't like the water," he said.

"I love it," Alice protested with indignation.

He was reminded of the earlier interaction between her and Nachenum and, though he had thought to have dismissed that, something prodded him to say, "You did not say you were thirsty, before."

Alice stared at him for a moment, pausing in her splashes, and then she affected an unconcerned air. "I did not know that I was until Nachenum offered me some water."

"Which he was right to do, had he noticed. But it is not his responsibility; it is mine."

She did not like this, and retaliated pertly with: "Then perhaps _you_ should have noticed."

Uncas began to swim towards shore. For a moment Alice looked disconcerted; with some apprehension, she watched him as he waded out of the water, and, dripping, used his old shirt to dry off.

He stood there for a moment, letting the sun warm his chest and shoulders, then looked back at Alice directly. She had ceased to play and was standing waist-deep in the water, with a somewhat forlorn expression on her face, as if he had spoiled the amusement for her. Her hair, the color of dark honey now that it was wet, dripped against the thin linen of her shift, which itself drew his attention to the curves of her form underneath it. Her allure was inadvertent and unintentional on her part, Uncas knew, but he felt desire lurch in his stomach regardless; it had been a long time since they had lain together.

He gestured, palm up, for her to come. If she were to refuse, he fully intended to go back in and get her.

Alice wobbled a little as if the mud under her feet had suddenly given way. "Wh-what do you want?"

Uncas extended his hand yet further, saying nothing. He did not want to talk. There had been more than enough talking between them lately, and little gained from it in his opinion.

Alice began slowly to wade towards him, tugging at her shift as it obstructed her movement. Eventually, she scrambled over the remaining rocks and, bare-footed, stopped just out of arms' length in front of him. She met his eyes with a mixture of defiance and uncertainty.

Reaching out, Uncas pulled her forwards; her squeak of surprise indicated she had thought he wasn't quite close enough to reach her, but he had a long reach and his grasp on her upper arms was sure. He shifted one hand to tangle in the back of her hair, possessively; and then he kissed her the way he had been wanting to do. Alice's mouth was warm but her response was hesitant; her body, too, stiff against him.

It wasn't enough; he broke off and, taking her hand, pulled her after him towards the bushes. Alice, sensing his intent, stumbled after but tugging back in protest. When he had her down on the ground with him, surrounded by a half-dozen abundant flowering shrubs, she wriggled in embarrassed intensity. "What if someone—"

He shook his head and put a finger against her mouth, then, when she subsided, kissed along the curve of her neck. He was aware that she was shivering, but he intended to make sure she was completely warm by the time he was finished.

* * *

When they had been preparing for the journey the night before in the cabin, it had seemed superfluous to include her sewing supplies, but now Cora was thankful she had slipped the small packet into a corner of her bag. Crossing through the swamp, she had stumbled, and the sleeve of her dress had caught on an unforgiving branch and torn from elbow nearly to wrist. It did not require immediate repair; only her forearm was exposed, but she had the time now, while they waited for Uncas and Alice to return from their ablutions. And she was glad to have something to occupy her attention.

Ben had threaded the needle for her, as the heat and fatigue had rendered her hands a little unsteady, and now sat at her side. He was aware of the tension between herself and Nathaniel and accordingly had been staying close by, though he didn't venture to talk to her beyond food requests and listening attentively should she have anything to say to him. He watched her pull the needle and thread through the grey fabric. Cora's preferences were to wear white or cream—they were cooler, and she associated the darker colors with age; but shopping in Albany she hadn't been able to deny that grey and brown were far more practical for frontier living, although she didn't consider them flattering.

"I can do," Ben offered, seeing her difficulty in performing the task one-handed. It _was_ rather awkward.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded, and took the small implement from her, inserting it into one edge of the material and out through the other side. His fingers were deft enough, she had to admit, and it was touching to see the effort with which he furrowed his brow as he performed the task. Cora rather wished that Nathaniel and Uncas were around to see Ben in such moments, when he was being helpful, but Uncas and Alice were still not anywhere in sight and Nathaniel had disappeared somewhere as had been his tendency. Nachenum was nearby, in the perpetual Indian crouch investigating signs (she assumed, as he was examining the ground with what seemed to her an undue amount of attention). The afternoon was wearing on.

"How many days?" Ben asked abruptly, having finished the stitches.

"I don't know, Ben," she said, with a little sigh, taking the needle and tying it off. He only meant until they reached the camp, but even then, how much longer would it be until she would have her own four walls around her? It was pointless to dwell on it, but her mind kept circling back to the question, regardless of how much she tried to direct her thoughts in another, more positive avenue. That, and her continued vexation with Nathaniel and his too-formal treatment of her. She didn't know what to do with that situation either.

"I want to stay with you," Ben said, and she was so pleased by his perfect sentence that she impulsively hugged him. The boy tensed for a moment, but then leaned back into her. "I am sorry you cannot," she murmured.

Alice and Uncas came into view. Uncas was holding her sister's hand in what even at that distance Cora thought was an unusually possessive manner. But they did not look as though they were angry, though Alice's cheeks were flushed.

She rose, gathering her supplies with her, and began to walk down the slight slope to the water. Nathaniel joined her halfway, appearing out of the undergrowth with uncanny prescience.

"Neither of you should go anywhere alone. Nachenum says that there have been others through here recently."

"I am not averse to company," Cora said—politely, though not truthfully; she would rather have washed in solitude. "Who might it have been?"

Nathaniel shrugged. "Until we know, it's better to be overcautious than not." Shifting his rifle up over his shoulder, he followed her to the water's edge.

Cora, not wanting to submerge herself completely, settled for a thorough sluicing of her face, neck and extremities. Her hair needed attention but she did not want to attempt to comb through its tangles just yet. Under cover of the bushes, she changed into a clean shift, and put the grey dress back on top. Meanwhile, Nathaniel performed his own cleansing rituals and, after they were both done, they sat for a while on the shore near the rocks in relative amity if not total communion.

In no hurry to take up the trail again, it was with reluctance that Cora stretched and rose when she saw Nathaniel was preparing to go back up to rejoin their journeymates. She wondered, as she followed him up the slope, if he were worried about his aunt passing on before they could make it to the wolf camp. It seemed a likely possibility if she were that sick. Cora felt rather appallingly unconcerned over the woman's fate one way or another and was glad that Nathaniel did not bring it up as a topic of discussion because she knew she would have difficulty evincing genuine concern.

The three men held a brief conversation, once together; and then Nathaniel told Cora and Alice that they had decided it was important not to linger from now on, as there might be hostile presences about; henceforth, barring any extreme fatigue on the part of the girls or Ben, there would be no more lengthy breaks or early evenings.

Cora tried to meet this news with a pleasant attitude. After all, the sooner they got to the wolf camp, the sooner she would be back in her cabin; but since this was not a foregone conclusion, it was not much comfort. That night, after a silent afternoon and evening's worth of travelling, she decided to approach Alice, thinking that, whatever the current state of affairs between herself and Nathaniel, she had to be on good terms with her sister. The alternative was no longer bearable.

Their campsite, having been made so late, did not initially seem very conducive to a chat. There was no fire; there was nothing to cook as they had all arrived together, without any of the men having gone ahead. The area, up on a promontory, was almost barren of trees except for a few tangled shrubs; their shelter came from a set of enormous rocks, backed by a cliff, at the base of which were some crevices and looming overhangs that could be nestled under. A brisk wind passing by swept up the occasional cloud of dust. Cora sought out Alice as the sun had just drifted past the distant trees in the valley whence they had come.

"Please let me apologize," she began, quietly, not wanting the men to be privy to their discussion.

Alice avoided her eyes, smoothing her skirts over her knees.

"I was wrong, Alice. I did not mean to speak so..." Cora hesitated. "So thoughtlessly. In truth, I do not feel like myself lately. Though I submitted to Nathaniel's authority, I find I cannot accept his decision with good will."

Alice looked out at the darkening sky, her mouth tightening a little, and Cora hurried on, "Which, while it does not excuse my ill-temper with you, may partially explain it. I am truly sorry."

There was no reply, and, Cora, after waiting a few more moments, thought she was not going to get one. As she turned, thinking that at least she had done what decency dictated, Alice blurted, "If we are unburdening ourselves, I should tell you that I never really forgave you for keeping Father's death a secret from me."

"And do you now?" Cora asked tentatively.

"I don't know. It still seems unjust." Alice met her gaze. "But I will try harder."

"As will I," Cora promised. "May I sit with you?"

"There is a beautiful sunset," Alice said.

Taking this as a tacit concession, Cora approached, settling down beside her sister on the flat rock that looked out over the vista.

"Sometimes it is hard to see the sun setting from the cabin clearing. From here you can see everything."

"Indeed."

"You know," Alice said, a brave tilt to her chin, "you were right in what you said."

"In what part?" Cora said carefully.

"He is not my husband. I am not his wife."

Cora shifted, feeling a stab of guilt at the matter-of-fact tone Alice had adopted. "I did not mean that to be a judgment."

"No," Alice said, "it was the truth."

They sat, side by side, until the valley was black, mostly silent after that exchange, but the mood between them was one of a growing understanding; and yet, both had a peculiar awareness that their relationship had changed: that one was no longer so bold and the other no longer so timid; that they were not even older and younger; they were just women who shared parents; they were just sisters.

* * *

"Wake up." Uncas laid a hand on Ben's shoulder. The boy was completely enveloped in the cloak, turned in towards the rock which sheltered him, and for a few moments he did not move, but after a short while his body uncurled and his face appeared. He blinked drowsily in the dim starlight.

"Tonight you stay up and keep first watch with me," Uncas said, low, so as not to disturb the others who were also asleep. He held out his knife, hilt towards Ben, who stared at it in suspicion for a moment, no doubt wondering if another lesson was imminent.

"Why?" Ben said cautiously, taking the knife.

"Because it's time you learned. You'll have twelve summers next year and the Delaware boys start taking watch by then. Some tribes, even earlier." Uncas refrained from adding that Ben, besides being small for his age, seemed to him as much of a liability as one of the women at this point. But he had also come to the conclusion that the lad needed to start thinking of himself as capable of at least a few things besides being light-fingered.

With apparent docility Ben followed him, yawning, out into the open where the cool night air met them as they moved away from the shelter of the cliff. Uncas gestured to what he decided was a good spot; not too far away from the others, so that the only way to them was through him, but one that also allowed him to see anything coming up out of the valley. He did not expect anyone to happen upon them that night, either involuntarily or on purpose; but it was when you did not expect that you were vulnerable.

Uncas settled down cross-legged on the flat rocks, and after a moment Ben adopted this pose too. For a while they sat in silence. Then Ben asked—"Who is coming?"

"No one," Uncas said.

Ben thought about this for a minute. "Why watch?"

"Some day, someone will."

He didn't know if the boy understood that or not.

Stars glistened overhead as time passed. The night was mild now that the wind had died down to a gentle breeze. Uncas, listening to Ben's breathing, could tell without looking at him that he was starting to drift in and out of awareness. It wasn't surprising. Naturally the lad would be tired after a long day of journeying in the hot sun. There was no need to keep him awake—except, of course, for its discipline value. Uncas gave him a gentle shove. Ben startled at once, then looked up at his elder guiltily.

Uncas shifted position so that he knelt rather than sat, and indicated for Ben to do the same. The boy complied, though he winced in discomfort.

"There are only three watches to the night. It is not long. You can endure anything for that length of time." Uncas spoke severely. Kneeling on rock was not very comfortable, to be sure, but he himself had had the same lessons from Chingachgook as a boy. The Munsee were a strong people, and there was no reason why Ben could not be trained to do the very least of what his mother's ancestors would expect.

"Tired," Ben mumbled.

"A man's mind must be the toughest part of him. Focus on what you _know_, not what you feel."

Ben remained silent at this reproof. The darkness surrounded them, a cool embrace against their skin. Somewhere far down in the valley a wolf howled wistfully. The rocks behind them seemed to catch the sound and throw back the echo. Uncas, still thinking of his father's teachings, was reminded of similar seances in Chingachgook's presence, not even so many years ago. He knew that he had been eager to learn; that he had embraced every year that brought the introduction of new skills and the honing of old ones; and yet there must have been many moments when his father wondered if any of his accumulated wisdom was being passed on. Perhaps even this green, sullen youngster, with his strange melange of cultures, would look down on a junior and think the same thoughts. It was hard to imagine now.

When the night had reached its midpoint, Uncas rose, uttering a brief ritual prayer of supplication to Manto, asking for continued peace for the next guard. Ben had slumped sideways from his kneeling and was lying like a foundered crab. Uncas nudged him in the ribs with his moccasined foot. "Wake up_._"

Ben gave a moan of discomfort, but after a few moments, came to a dazed wakening and pulled himself upright, hobbling after the Mohegan warrior as he led the way back to where Nachenum, Nathaniel, Cora and Alice all slept. Uncas crouched and touched his brother's shoulder. Nathaniel came awake at once, from long habit, and rose, giving a controlled and silent yawn. Uncas gestured that the first part of the night had been uneventful, and settled down where Nathaniel had been. Ben needed no urging to do the same; he collapsed gratefully, burrowed his head against his pack and with only an inadvertent whimper or two fell back to sleep.

* * *

_A/N: I really don't like putting author's notes in stories because...uh...they strike me as kinda solipsistic. But more importantly, I figure people want to read the story, not hear from the author...yet since the last couple of reviews have some valid questions in them, I thought I might address a few things at this point. _

_Firstly, Uncas is NOT pushing Alice in Nachenum's direction-he is taking N's comment that she is intriguing at face value, not reading too much into it. (And N did indeed mention a girl back at camp; so I think he is just being a bit perverse and playful here to see how Uncas will deal with it). If Alice were to decide she wanted to be in a relationship with N or any other man for that matter, I don't know that Uncas would step aside, but he would hardly drag her by the hair to a distant cave and tell her she HAS to be with him._

_ "...this felt like he was just kind of using her for sex."_

_Uncas is a jewel of a man but he is still a man, and not perfect. Sometimes he does do things without asking for permission first. Their sexual relationship thus far has always been on Alice's terms. Alice's hesitance was more because she was confused since normally he does let her take the lead, not because she was an unwilling participant (if it came across that way, then perhaps I need to re-write the scene. It was not supposed to be a violent interaction.) _

_ "...when she brings up the issue of marriage to Uncas and is clearly upset he just walks away?"_

_Well, he wouldn't have left her except she begged him to do so; he wasn't walking away in the sense of deliberately choosing not to deal with her._

_ "If she and Uncas are unable to verbally express their feelings about one another, to one another, then I feel that they are destined to drift apart and ultimately separate."_

_I completely agree...which is why writing the final part of this story is giving me so much trouble right now. It's a hard thing to get right. By the way, I like the above observation so much that I think it should be this story's summary... :) I am obsessed with communication and miscommunication, being in a interracial, intercultural, and interlingual relationship myself (whew! tired myself out just writing that). So I am happy to answer further questions/sort out any confusion regarding the story, if I can; just send me a message._


	7. Chapter 7

Nathaniel found it amusing that Uncas had kept Ben up with him the night before. "Brother," he said, as they used their tomahawks to hack some of the obstructing greenery aside so that the women would have a clearer path behind them, "you are not going to make a Mohegan, or even a Delaware warrior out of him before we reach the camp."

"I can try," Uncas said.

"Your optimism is admirable. If misguided." With his left hand, Nathaniel twisted a prickly shrub just at face-level out of the way. They were crossing through some particularly overgrown terrain which was difficult to avoid entirely, due to a river-cut chasm on one side and a shale cliff not far to the other.

"Probably," Uncas replied. "But as we discussed before, he needs preparation."

"Mm." Nathaniel glanced back as he habitually did to make sure Cora and Alice, who were helping each other along the way now that they seemed to have resolved most of their differences—a development that both the men were relieved to see—were not far behind. Ben and Nachenum were further back. "I can't help thinking it might be in vain."

"You know what Father would say about that."

Nathaniel grunted. Chingachgook was very clear about his belief that there was no such thing as useless knowledge; that seeds, literal or figurative, scattered across the ground could take root at any time and it was not for the sower to judge their progress or lack thereof. "Are you going to have him do it again?"

"Yes, tonight, and every night until we get there. Or until he stops falling asleep. I might let him rest in that case," Uncas said with magnanimity.

Nathaniel smiled. He dismissed Ben from his mind then and attacked the clearing of the path with renewed vigor. It was graceless work, hacking away at shrubbery; but like any job that needed to be done, it deserved his full attention. And, since maintaining a slow pace was necessary regardless, it was satisfying for him to have something to do while they walked.

That he and Cora were at something of an impasse was becoming apparent to him; he had hoped that his unflagging politeness might either convince her that he was approachable, should she wish to apologize for her unwifely attitude; or prod her to fly into a temper, which might have cleared the air. That they could not go on in the current way for much longer was also becoming apparent to him. But his decision to make this journey could not be altered, and Ben—the other reason she was upset with him—had to be left behind at its conclusion. There was no gainsaying that.

He also knew it wasn't entirely fair to Cora to delay her moving in to their new home indefinitely; more so in her case than in Alice's, since the older Munro woman had, in many ways, been doing nothing but travel since she had come to their shores last year. The time spent in Albany, while for the most part an enjoyable interlude, had also been spent living out of a trunk. And then there were the months spent on roads, rivers and trails. One could scarcely expect a woman to live thus and not complain.

Actually, Nathaniel would not have minded if Cora _did_ complain; it was her bitter acceptance while she was clearly unhappy that he found objectionable. He wondered how much longer she planned to keep up with the pretense that everything was fine between them.

Later on that day, he found out. After having settled down in a grassy clearing studded with wild rosebushes, they had dinner, which had been relatively luxurious with the discovery of fresh mushrooms to supplement the limited portions of dried meat. Alice was yawning, curled up in the crook of Uncas' arm; Ben was off hunting for more mushrooms to fill the corners of his stomach; Nachenum was sharpening his tomahawk. Nathaniel had just been about to do the same (since the weapon would require some care after its misuse earlier that day in hacking at weeds) when Cora touched his arm and asked if they might speak.

"Of course," Nathaniel said, and, observing that Uncas and Alice's eyes were on them although the other couple was trying to look as though they hadn't noticed, suggested, "Shall we—?" He indicated with his head that they move out of earshot.

Cora nodded gratefully. Nathaniel got up from the grass, pausing for a moment to stretch sore shoulder muscles that had gotten unused to such employment. Cora followed him away from the others, off in a westerly direction for a few minutes, towards the evening sun. He paused by a tree that had been lightning-struck, with a deep gash in its core, and indicated that she might sit down.

Cora hesitated, twisting her hands together. "No...thank you."

He realized she wanted things to be back to normal between them. Fine, that was what he wanted as well.

The silence deepened, interrupted by the sudden drum of a woodpecker on a nearby branch. Cora started, then seemed to come to herself. "Husband. I wished to tell you that, though I would rather not have come on this journey, it is improper to resent your decision to have me do so." She looked down as she spoke.

"Further, I would add that I understand why you could not leave us, but not why you must go in the first place." She lifted her gaze now and looked directly at him.

Nathaniel reached out for her hand, taking it in his. "I think you do," he said gently.

Cora began to shake her head, but he moved closer to her and put his hands on either side of her face. "You crossed the ocean at your father's behest, did you not, wife?"

"Yes...but—"

"If my parents were alive I would do no less for them. Chingachgook—the only father I have—has asked for me. It little matters why. To ignore such a bidding would be to dishonor him, and their memory."

Cora's dark eyes glistened. "I do not wish us to be at odds."

"Nor do I." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "So let us not be. I regret that it was necessary to make this trip before we had been properly settled; it is a great deal to expect of you, I know that."

Cora summoned up a weak smile. "Still, I should have tried harder to rise to those expectations. I thought I would be willing to live under any circumstances as long as we were together, and then I realized that was not true, and I was disappointed and ashamed of myself."

"You would be a strange woman if you found it easy to live out here, Cora. Even with a roof over your head. I'm afraid you will find it very isolating. It may be many years before this land is populated enough to provide you with neighbors."

"Having too many neighbors might be as bad as not having enough. Do you remember how noisy it was at the boarding house in Albany?"

"Mm." Nathaniel grinned. "Still, the meat pies from the dining room were good. One does get a little tired of dried jerky."

"For my part, I miss afternoon tea." Cora sighed and let him draw her into his arms, relaxing against him. They stood for a few moments in an embrace, until the woodpecker's impatient thrum startled them again. Nathaniel looked over her head into the coloring evening sky. There were distant rain clouds massing on the horizon, but they were still thin and far away; it promised to be yet another mild, quiet night.

"Come," he said. "Let's go back to the others. I can make a fire and, if memory serves, I believe I did remember to put a few of last year's mulberry leaves in my bag before we left. We could probably make something potable out of that."

Cora smiled, indicating that this would be a very welcome prospect; and they walked back together.

* * *

Two days later, Alice reflected that she should have known better than to wish the heat away, for something less desirable would come in its place. And it did, in the form of a heavy driving rain, which had moved in during the night and forced them to rise early from their beds, while the woods were still dark and Nachenum had not yet completed the final watch before daybreak.

There was no lingering for food; with an unspoken agreement to worry about eating later, they moved in swift single file through the forest. Rocks were slimy, and the ground grew thick with mud. Alice's moccasins, while possessed of naturally water-repelling properties, were rapidly becoming sodden. She had a spare pair in her pack, but there was no point in getting them out just yet, since they would become equally wet. Better to wait until they found shelter of some sort and then at least she would have dry feet for the night.

There was no opportunity for conversation; Nathaniel, in the lead, had set a brisker pace than normal and the other two men seemed determined that the rest of them keep up today. Alice did not mind; her legs had begun to become more accustomed to the hours of walking, and the inclement weather spurred her on. The sound of the rain was relaxing, though it was unpleasant to be soaked through to her skin. She was comforted by the fact that at least her supplies would be dry, since she was always so careful to wrap them thoroughly in treated skins before repacking anything.

She glanced behind her at Ben and was struck by the boy's rather ghostly appearance; in the wet with his hair plastered in strings against his pale skin, made more washed out by the grey rain, his eyes like ashes. She wondered if he had actually grown in the past week as he seemed taller and thinner despite the fact that he was eating at least as much as the men. Fumbling in a hand-sewn inner pocket of her cloak, Alice came up with a bit of food she had tucked away from last night. He was always hungry, and they had bypassed breakfast. "Have this."

Ben took it and swallowed it down, barely bothering to chew, then muttered something that might have been a 'thank you'.

Nachenum appeared and said something to the boy that sounded curt, while taking Alice's elbow gently and urging her forwards. Alice moved without thinking, a little taken aback since it was usually Uncas who was right there to provide assistance. Ben trailed after, drawing up the hood of his cloak once more against the rain.

Alice tugged back on Nachenum's arm once he had escorted her down a slope that was so thickly pebbled with rocks it made each step a potential fall. "Where is Uncas?" she asked, louder than normal in order to be heard over the rain.

Nachenum pointed ahead of them, though she could not see much farther than a stone's throw into the distance, obscured as it was by the wet, by the thick tangle of trees and bushes.

"Get him for me?" Alice entreated, uncertain whether he would understand this last. There was nothing wrong with his assistance, nor had he taken any liberties, but she missed Uncas' hands that knew her, that when they were guiding never failed to imbue her with a giddy sense of absolute safety and security.

Nachenum must have known what she wanted because he disappeared and was back shortly with the Mohegan, who, as he always did, made that quick visual assessment of her person without speaking, ensuring she was all right.

"Nothing is wrong...I just wanted you," Alice said, a little embarrassed, seeing Nachenum give her a quick, final glance before going on ahead of them.

Uncas' gaze warmed her, but then Ben, awkwardly, was there, and there was no chance to prolong the moment. Uncas simply wrapped his hand around hers and led her after him, into the grey-green blur of rain-soaked forest.

By noon—or as close as Alice could determine was near noon, based on the pangs of hunger collecting in her stomach, since there were certainly no visual clues to let her know what time of day it might be—the woods opened up to a long stretch of cliff, which dropped away sharply to a wide boiling river. The water was white with foam as it swirled around and rushed through a rocky canyon. They followed the cliff down to the base of the river and began making their way along its slick side. Walls of rock and cave-like entrances loomed above and around them. Alice's feet were tired of squishing around in her muddy moccasins, but she gamely pushed forward, unwilling to be the one to slow them down. Far ahead, visible now that they were out in the open, Nathaniel signaled to Nachenum, who jogged back to Uncas and similarly gestured to him.

"We'll stop for a while," Uncas said. "Maybe for the night, if the rain doesn't let up."

Alice was not sorry to hear this. Cora and Ben, upon catching up, both seemed to welcome the news as well. Nathaniel, it turned out, had found a narrow opening in one of the rock walls, which, once investigated, proved to be big enough inside to shelter only two or three people. Alice was reminded of the first cave she had ever slept in; last summer, behind the waterfall. This one was considerably less roomy, but she was grateful nonetheless to be in its confines, out of the rain.

She and Cora huddled within, changing out of their sodden clothing in almost complete darkness, discarding them and putting on dry ones as quickly as their swollen fingers could manage. Cora's breath hissed as their warmth in the small space created steam that circled around them. "Oh, what a terrible day," she murmured, her voice heavy with fatigue. "Aren't your feet absolutely soaked?"

"I have another pair of moccasins," Alice suggested, though she was slipping them on even as she volunteered their use. "Do you want them?"

"No...but I wish we could have a fire, so our things would dry faster. I don't think they can make one in this rain." Cora leaned back against the wall, her form barely visible in the narrow slant of grey light from outside. "If you could have anything in the world right now, what would you have?"

"Mm...a feather pillow," Alice said, thinking that the rock underneath them was not going to be very enjoyable to sleep on that night. "And hot soup. What about you?"

"A cup of tea so strong it could stand up by itself," Cora said, and laughed. "Though your pillow would not be unwelcome either. I feel sorry for the men having to be outside."

Alice did, too, but she also had no desire to relinquish her place to any of them, and felt deliciously, selfishly grateful that by virtue of being a woman she had a right to it. She tucked her feet under the hem of her fresh skirt, relishing its relative warmth against her chilly skin.

"Decent in there?" Nathaniel's voice.

"Yes," Cora called back.

"Hungry?"

"Ravenous."

"Better eat something," Nathaniel advised. They were all low on dried supplies, but Alice knew that until the weather cleared, none of the males were likely to go hunting—or find anything if he did. Resignedly, the women dug into their packs and finished off the rest of the _pumihkan_. But it was not very satisfying and Alice had to drink plenty of water with it to give her stomach the illusion that no further nourishment was needed.

After eating they curled up in the small space, listening to the rain that continued to slash outside and drip past the aperture rhythmically. "I'm so tired," Cora yawned.

Alice murmured that she was, too, on account of their unusually early morning, and after a while they both drifted off, despite the discomfort of the ground and the tightness of the surrounding walls.

Though she fell asleep hoping that the rain would have stopped by the time she woke, she was not to have her wish. Alice scrambled awkwardly to the entrance on her knees—as it was too low overhead to permit her to stand—and peered out into the dimming light.

The men had found partial refuge in a tree that had taken root in a crevice and was growing crookedly out of the rock. Its branches were dying and not wide enough to completely shelter them from the downfall. Ben's small form looked pitiful hunched in as it was between the broad shoulders of Uncas and Nachenum, who crouched underneath the tree. Nathaniel stood, looking out over the wildly tossing water of the river, its surface pocked with rain.

Alice thought about joining them. The air in the cave was very close. But she wanted to stay dry. At last she withdrew, reluctantly. Returning to her corner, she lay back down with her head on her damp bundle of things. Cora still slept gently beside her.


	8. Chapter 8

The rest of the day was slow to pass. The rain lightened by the early evening, subsiding to a peevish drizzle as night came on. Nathaniel decided after a brief conference with the other two that they should remain there till morning, since the women, at least, had shelter. Ben looked wretched at the thought of spending any more time in his soaked clothes, but the process of properly drying out was going to have to wait until tomorrow's campsite, and a fire.

Nathaniel and Nachenum retreated to individual depressions in the rocks, big enough in which to make a bed, with the addition of a few spruce branches torn from the tree and their sleeping hides to cover them. Uncas, with a miserable boy still at his side, remained under the tree, there to keep watch until midnight.

Fleetingly, Uncas considered sending Ben off to the rocks too; it had been an unusually long day for the lad, and the rain had not made it a pleasant one. But he intended to stick with his decision that Ben stay up with him, whether the latter liked it or not; Ben had not yet managed to stay awake for the full third of the night, and until he accomplished this, Uncas didn't mean to let him have a break.

They sat in continued silence while the misty air grew darker and cooler, until only the whiteness of the river stood out against the shadows. Ben began to shiver, though he was trying to do it quietly. At last he said in a resentful tone, "I am cold."

"Good. Perhaps you will stay awake."

Ben's hold on his temper had never been very strong, it seemed to the Mohegan warrior, and now again it got away from him.

"Not _need_ to stay awake! You watch!" He flung the knife he was holding—or perhaps it simply slipped from his grasp as he gestured in frustration. The weapon went skittering, much as it had a month ago, except this time the bone handle clattered on the wet rock and slid inevitably into the river below.

For a moment, they both stared where it had gone.

"That," Uncas said, "was my best knife."

Ben's throat moved slightly as he swallowed. "Mistake."

"Mistake," Uncas agreed. "Go get it."

Ben looked at the river. Then back at Uncas to see if he were serious. For a moment, he hesitated. Slowly, he climbed to his feet and went along the rock to the edge, where it sloped down into the water close below. It would be possible to extend one's arm into the water, though not possible to tell how deep it was along the edge.

Ben, after another brief hesitation, got down on his knees and from there to his stomach, stretching his arm into the river much as they had done when they fished; but this water was no gently gurgling stream; it was dark, foaming with fury and, from the look on the boy's face, cold. Ben grimaced as he felt around while trying not to tumble in.

Uncas rose and crossed over to him. Holding his forearm so that he would not slide over the edge, he pushed Ben further out, enabling him to reach deeper into the water. Ben looked rather terrified as his white face bobbed just inches above the foam, but he struggled gamely to sound the depths beneath. Uncas loosened his grip a little to allow him to go out further, just as the water bubbled upwards, and Ben's head went under. He came up choking and sputtering and crying out with fear.

"Don't you know enough to hold your breath, _Xanikw?_" Uncas demanded, exasperated, over the rush of the river. He hauled Ben back and set him up unceremoniously on the rock. He reached out, only intending to divest the boy of his cloak which was puddled around him as he was now completely soaked, but Ben must have thought he meant to put him back in the water, and jerked backwards. "Not my name," he burst out. "Mother-give name is _Haqui-niisha_! Not stupid squirrel!" His voice caught.

"All right. Haqui-niisha. You still threw my best knife into the river," Uncas said, but he was feeling less vexed about its loss. One's name was a powerful thing; and Ben's releasing that knowledge to him was a positive indication of his progression.

"Not throw," Ben said, and then he began to cry, which even the roar of the river and the darkness of night did little to conceal.

Uncas could see that the boy was overwhelmed and in no condition to stay out any longer, much less carry on a discussion. He hauled him away from the river side and back up under the protection of the tree. Ben dropped limply, an exhausted shivering mass, not moving or resisting even when Uncas peeled his cloak away from him and covered him up with his own sleeping hide, the one dry item remaining to him. "Rest," he said.

Ben was silent except for a few more shaking sobs.

It must have been close to midnight before the misty drizzle finally ceased altogether. Uncas woke Nathaniel from his spruce bed, but instead of taking his place in the warm hollow created by his brother's body, he carried Ben in to it, put him down and covered him up again with the hide. Ben did not stir. Uncas rejoined Nathaniel under the tree.

"Rough night?" Nathaniel inquired, looking at him sideways.

"For him," Uncas said. "Maybe I will give him a break tomorrow."

Nathaniel chuckled. "You do plan to deliver him alive to the camp, don't you?"

"He's stronger than he thinks."

"You're a hard teacher."

"So was Father, and we survived to adulthood."

"True." Nathaniel gazed up through the branches above them.

Uncas took a deep breath of the air, tasting its coppery dampness. "I think it will be fair by morning."

"It had better be," Nathaniel said. "The women are likely to revolt if it is not. Get some sleep, Brother." He nudged Uncas's shoulder with the butt of the rifle he cradled in his arm.

Uncas grunted in assent, and settled down on the smooth rock to follow the suggestion; he was more than usually tired himself. He went to sleep with the rushing of the water in his ears, and the spruce branches tossing softly in the wind overhead, and wondering why Ben's mother would have given him such an apparently divisive name as Two-Selves.

* * *

Cora awoke, her nostrils registering the scent of something cooking in the still-humid air. A stiffness in her neck caused her to moan quietly as she struggled to sit upright, aware of aches in almost every part of her body. Yesterday's journey must have been more wearying than she had realized. Sleeping in the mossy glades and forest carpet had seemed hardship enough, but the cramped cave was even less enjoyable.

Alice's form was curled and motionless beside her. Cora crept past her and struggled out of the opening, standing up, though her legs felt as if they belonged to a newborn and barely cooperated. She was intensely thirsty and hungry, but at the same time nauseated.

Outside, the morning-yellow sky was a vast relief. Even the river sounded less menacing, and near its shores, an almost tranquil domestic picture presented itself. There was a crackling fire encircled by river stones, around which the three men and the boy had grouped themselves; drying clothing and hides were everywhere, and the source of the smell became apparent—Nachenum was roasting some unidentifiable chunks of meat on a green stick.

"Good morning," Nathaniel called up to her. "Breakfast?"

"Water," Cora croaked, almost inaudibly. She tottered out of the cave and down to where the rocks dropped away to the riverside, and knelt there to gather up handfuls and wash her face with it. The coolness brought some relief to her foggy head, and she joined the men by the fire, grateful for its bright warmth.

Nachenum extended a cooled piece of meat in her direction, speared on his knife. Cora took it between her fingers and had a taste of the crisp exterior. "What is it?" she murmured, surprised that they had managed to find anything.

"How does it taste?" Nathaniel asked.

She frowned; they were all watching her expression a little too closely. "Unusual," she ventured.

Uncas made a wavy s-motion with his hand. "Snake."

Cora looked at Ben, who was eating with unapologetic relish. "That," she said, giving the meat back to Nachenum, who took it with a grin, "is disgusting."

"Not our favorite either," Nathaniel admitted, handing her his waterbag. "But we had to have something. Think Alice'll like it?"

"No." Cora took a long drink, thinking that she would have to go hungry for a while before she would knowingly consume a reptile, and she doubted that Alice would feel any differently. In a tone of rather haughty reproof she added: "We do not eat snakes in England."

The men seemed amused by this, but Cora ignored them. She still had wet clothes in the cave that she meant to get laid out and dried before it was decided that they had to take up the trail again, so she spent the next little while doing so, and reorganizing her supplies. Alice woke up as she was pulling the last of their damp clothes out, and joined her outside, sleepy-eyed and yawning. "It's stopped raining," she said thankfully.

"Yes, now if only we can stay long enough to get everything dry." Cora wrung and shook out her dress, then draped it over a thick branch. "Oh...and if they offer you some meat, don't eat it."

"Why not?" her sister said curiously, going to investigate.

Cora sighed—sometimes she thought the men were as much children as adults. At least they had the leisure now to joke around. _Snake for breakfast, indeed! I suppose tomorrow it will be bugs._

It was afternoon by the time the clothing and supplies had dried sufficiently to enable them to move on. There was no chance of making up much distance in what remained of the day, but Cora was happy to have had the additional rest, not only for her sake, but for Ben's. Before they left, Cora asked Nathaniel if he thought the boy might be getting sick, but her husband did not seem to think so. Yet Ben hung back along the way, instead of walking by her as he usually did. It troubled Cora because she wanted Ben to be in the right frame of mind by the time they reached their destination, and she was worried he wasn't going to be, that he would draw back into himself, as he had been when they had found him in Albany.

"Nathaniel," Cora said, drawing near to him, "when do you think we will reach the camp?"

"If we don't have to hole up for any more bad weather," Nathaniel considered, "perhaps...in less than a week."

"It is that far still?" Cora stared at him. It had begun to feel to her as though they must surely be getting close to his father's people by now. Their last night spent at the cabin, their last meal eaten at a table, seemed very long ago. She tried to hide the disappointment on her face but Nathaniel had already seen it.

He threw her a wry grin. "The worst of the rough terrain is over, Nachenum tells me. From here, it is not so far to the road that we took up from the city this spring. Once we reach that, we have only to follow it for a time. Then there is a river, with Nachenum's canoe waiting for us, which we will take to the camp."

Cora recalled that the road did mean for easier travelling, if it left one feeling more vulnerable being so much more out in the open. Heaving a sigh, and gathering up her skirts, she moved on.

* * *

To her frustration, Alice found that the extra sleep of the day before made it impossible for her to fall asleep according to her usual pattern once they made camp that night. She was not at all tired as the sun set over the horizon and the first stars began to speckle the sweep of sky. Though Cora and Nathaniel and Nachenum settled down as usual, she made no attempt to, and stayed sitting up, perched on a grassy hillock above the others. Her blood seemed to sing with warmth and energy. She hummed restlessly as she sat, swinging her legs about.

Uncas came by and said only—"You should sleep," which, she thought, was what he always said. And what she always did! Sleep and walk, walk and sleep. She was tired of it.

"Not just yet," she said, with spirit. Why were the men always telling them what they _should_ do? They could at least frame their requests or advice in a more mannerly form. Nachenum had actually taken her and led her where he wanted to go that day. Granted, he didn't know her language, but Nathaniel and Uncas certainly never seemed to bother much with words either, even though they were perfectly capable of speaking respectfully.

Uncas took her hand (there he went again, she thought) and tipped something into it. "More berries," Alice said rapturously, momentarily forgetting her displeasure at the sight of the delectable-looking offering, infinitely preferable to snake meat—or even dried deer jerky. "Mmm. Where did you find them?"

He indicated with his head beyond the hill, but as she scrambled down off her perch, intent on exploring for herself to see if there were any more, he stopped her easily, pulling her gently back. "Why not?" she said, cross again, for although he had not spoken he seemed to know what was in her mind.

"Not safe to wander anywhere alone. You know that."

"We could go together," Alice said, although she rather fancied the idea of stumbling upon the raspberry patch without having to be shown where it was. Since the winter, she was beginning to have greater confidence in her sense of direction, and she longed to test it, but with the three men always keeping such a close eye on her and her sister, she feared never to have the opportunity.

"It's almost dark."

Thwarted, she gazed up under her eyelashes at him, having discovered by now that he found this compelling, and said, as sweetly as she could, "May I stay up with you?"

"That's Ben's job."

"Ben is but a _boy,_" Alice said, miffed that her charm had not proven effective.

"You are but a woman."

He did not say this in a disparaging way, but she felt slighted nonetheless. "A woman I may be," she said shortly, "but I am not useless."

His mouth softened. He was still holding her. He leaned in for a kiss, but she pulled away. Though Nachenum was sleeping, and Cora and Nathaniel were engaged in quiet conversation and absorbed in each other, Ben was in the vicinity, and she did not feel like putting their relationship on display in such an obvious manner. "Do not," she said, knowing that she sounded supercilious but not caring. If he could deny her something she wanted, she could deny him in return.

Uncas's expression grew thoughtful, a tiny line appearing in his forehead. He released her. "Go back to the others."

"I suppose I must," she retorted, brushing past him and walking down to level ground, where their companions were grouped. She gathered her cloak around her, but sat, having no intention of lying down. She wished she _were_ tired; it would make the night pass much faster if she could fall asleep, but Alice knew now that it would be a long time before she would be able to. Irritated, she shifted position so that she was sitting cross-legged. It was less ladylike, but more comfortable.

Some time later, Uncas and Ben had gone to wherever their watchpoint was—she guessed the top of the hill, from the sounds of their voices faintly drifting down to her; Uncas's, calm as always, Ben's, higher in pitch and with a determination to it. Alice, spurred by curiosity to know what they were talking about—since Ben barely said a word during the day—as well as being bored, threw off her cloak and arose. Proud of how quietly she could walk in her moccasins, she crept up the slope in their direction, moving just a few feet at a time, her heart beating faster with the novelty of the activity.

Alice positioned herself behind a tree and slid down to its base, settling herself there, where she could hear them. Then she realized within a few moments that they were, of course, speaking in Delaware. Repressing a desire to laugh, she nevertheless remained for a little longer: until there was a pause in their discussion and Uncas said, "_Wiyon-ashay_. Come out of there."

She should have known she would not be able to sneak up on him; but it was rather humiliating to be caught so. Biting her lip, she pushed herself back up against the tree and showed herself, approaching them with slight defiance. "You could not have seen me," she argued. "It is too dark."

"I heard you." Uncas' tone was tranquil, not giving away whether he was teasing or not. _Probably not, since he seems to hear me thinking sometimes._ Alice sat down beside them. "What were you talking about?" she asked, hoping to distract him.

"Language lesson," the warrior said mildly. "Delaware and Munsee are cousins, but there is still variation between them."

"It is strange to be talking when you are on lookout," Alice pointed out.

"Yes, but we do not have much time left to us." Uncas held out his arm, sounding resigned as he spoke. Alice leaned in, gratified that she had managed to get her way after all. Ben and Uncas continued to talk, and she listened through his chest to the familiar voice saying unfamiliar words, like a pleasant hum in her ear, and beyond it, the steady heartbeat that spoke to her always of strength and comfort. As the hours passed she dozed off, and by the time the middle of the night had arrived, she was so drowsy that she was barely aware of Uncas's arms lifting her and carrying her back to their forest bed, where he laid her down with infinite care.


	9. Chapter 9

The weather remained mild for the next few days, as they traveled further south, catching up with the road. From then on, as Nathaniel had promised Cora, maintaining a steady pace was much easier.

A few times they encountered European traders, who were bearing supplies atop pack ponies and the occasional wagon north, as well as small military convoys. The first time, Cora and Alice were scrutinized so intensely by a passing party that Uncas and Nathaniel made sure to keep them back from the road whenever anyone was spotted in the distance from then on. They simply drew too much attention. A Delaware and Mohegan warrior might conceivably be in the company of a white man and a nondescript urchin, but the addition of the women made their party too unusual to avoid notice. Nachenum usually stayed at least a mile ahead as a scout, and would report back to them if he saw anyone coming, giving them enough time to make a discreet bypass.

The day on which they finally reached the river which would bring them to the camp saw them all in good spirits. Nachenum's canoe had been so thoroughly concealed that it took the men a long time to completely unearth it from its hiding spot and set it, ready for boarding, back into the water.

Ben, eyeing the birchbark sides and bottom of the craft, was dubious as to whether or not it was safe, telling Cora that he had never been in a vessel of any kind on the water. She assured him that it was, as long as he sat still. Ben climbed aboard and gripped the edges, looking determined not to move a muscle.

Uncas, Nathaniel and Nachenum took up their paddles and soon had the craft shooting forwards up the river. It was one of the largest of the Delaware canoes, designed to hold five men, though Nachenum said that only two others had accompanied him on the way down. Now, going upriver, they had to put in a consistent effort to keep the canoe moving at a good pace.

At noon they stopped to fish for their midday meal and Cora and Alice spent a pleasant hour lounging on the banks of the river, while the men provided the food and Ben was taught how to prepare and cook the fillets over the fire. There was plenty, enough for them all to have a full meal for the first time that week, with some saved for supper. After eating they rested for a short time before reboarding the craft and taking up the paddles.

Alice liked to be in the canoe again, even while recalling the first time she had ridden in it she had not felt so enamored of the experience. Compared to tramping through the woods, it was luxury to be able to relax on the bottom of the craft and know that they were making progress which required no effort on her part. Her offer to paddle was not even considered; although the men were polite enough not to speculate on what might happen should they let her, their faces clearly said what they were thinking. Apparently women didn't paddle any more than they participated in night watches. Nachenum, through Uncas, said that Delaware women did take the smaller canoes out from time to time—but Alice was no Delaware woman. Uncas refrained from interpreting the latter part of this comment. So Alice and Cora merely rested and watched the blurred clouds pass by in the reflection on the river's surface, content to be thusly transported.

They paddled well into late evening, until the sun behind them cast long shadows from the trees, extending like fingers over the water. Then they drew ashore, and the men pulled the canoe up on the banks, turning it over on its side to provide a half-shelter, which Cora, Alice and Ben settled under. Nachenum made a small fire over which he heated the remaining fish from the noon catch.

"Tell a story," Alice murmured to no one in particular, thinking of last summer, when Uncas had translated the tale of Rainbow Crow told by Nachenum's older brother Machque. She had been so confused, so out of sorts because she had felt that Uncas had been ignoring her. Her self of a year ago could not have imagined that tonight she would once again be sitting around a fire with her companions, the night similarly warm, the stars just as bright, but everything else so different.

There was silence for a moment following her request, then Nathaniel said, "Good idea. Brother?"

Uncas shook his head. "It's time Haqui-niisha put his lessons to use." He looked at Ben, who was sitting next to him.

Ben shook his head, but not very definitely.

"In English," Uncas specified.

"That's a beautiful name," Cora said softly. "Does it mean something?"

"Two-selves," Ben said, low. He was staring into the fire, his forehead creased in thought.

"Go on," Uncas prompted.

The boy was quiet for a little longer, then he took a breath.

"Squirrel like to take from other squirrels. Take...acorns? He wants to have most of all. He is always busy. And stupid. Why he is stupid? Because he always takes from other squirrels—not just _needs,_ but _wants_. Some day, the tree he keeps the acorns in, it is too small." Ben concentrated. "So..." he mimed an explosion with his hands. "So, the acorns go. Like that. And other squirrels run away with acorns. Squirrel is hungry. And sad. And stupid."

Nathaniel shared a glance with Uncas, who reached out his hand and laid it on Ben's head in a brief gesture of approval. And Ben, Alice saw, neither flinched nor shifted away; his face seemed to brighten, as if in relief.

* * *

Although the big canoe was more cumbersome and difficult to steer than its smaller cousins, Nathaniel found he was enjoying being in the stern. It was refreshing to exert the particular set of muscles employed in paddling, those that had not had a chance to be used all winter and spring. And he liked to be able to see everyone; it gave him a proprietarial sense, as if he were their patriarch. Cora was directly in front of him, and Alice in front of her; Uncas knelt in the middle, wielding his paddle; Ben was in front of Uncas, and Nachenum was in the bow position at the prow of the canoe.

It was early evening of what had been a second gloriously sunny day on the water; this night and the next, Nathaniel reckoned, would see them to the Delaware camp, and consequently, their father. He was not sorry their journey was almost over. Rather than the actual travelling, it was the constant need for wariness that he found tiring, the realization that he and Uncas had to spend most of their energy ensuring that no harm befell the women and the boy under their care. Also, he sensed that Uncas was not in such a rush to reach the camp, though he had no idea why that should be so, and he didn't want to press his brother for any explanation; it was, after all, only a feeling.

Some time later, after they had successfully navigated a rather treacherous section of river and rapids where rocks lurked just beneath the surface, Uncas rested his paddle across the gunwales of the canoe and tapped Ben on the shoulder. The boy turned around.

"I could use a break," Uncas said solemnly. "Take over for a while."

Nathaniel had to smile at the way Ben's face suddenly became animated, and the eagerness with which he picked up the implement, though it was almost as long as he was. He began to paddle. The resultant effect was a considerable decrease in the canoe's speed compared to its previous velocity, but this was not due to any lack of energy on Ben's part and Nathaniel thought it was worth it to see the enjoyment the boy was getting out of being thusly initiated into the masculine world.

Cora murmured over her shoulder, "I had my doubts as to your brother's methods, but I think Ben is doing better."

"Mm." Nathaniel reached out and caught a dark curl of her hair. "Learning can be achieved in many ways, not just by sitting in a classroom."

She rolled her eyes at him and tugged her hair free. "That was an unusually pedantic remark."

"Well, I am in a good mood." He grinned at her unrepentantly. "Aren't you?"

Cora gazed out to her left so that he could just see her profile. She ran her hand along the side of the canoe. "I suppose. It is hard to find fault with this weather. I do think we would all be the better for a proper meal."

Next to her, Alice stretched and yawned. "When are we going ashore, Nathaniel?"

"Whenever you see a place you like," Nathaniel said. The rays of the setting sun were still warm against his back, but there was no need to push forwards into night; they had made good progress that day, and would do so tomorrow if the easterly breeze held.

_

* * *

_

_Father, we..._

_Father. You were wrong about us. We don't know. _She_ doesn't know. What good was being isolated at the cabin, if she still doesn't know?_

_Father. We might have made a mistake._

Uncas scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and tried to concentrate. Spirals of smoke were visible in the distance and he knew they were only moments away from reaching the location of his relatives. He dug in his paddle. Perhaps he would have some more time to organize his thoughts before he had to have a conference with Chingachgook as to how the rest of the winter and spring had passed. After all, there was his aunt to inquire after and see; that was of primary importance. Perhaps the rest would be left for later. Perhaps Chingachgook would not even ask how things went with him and Alice.

He doubted this. But one could hope.

_Father, I..._

The canoe scraped gently, irrevocably, on the sandy shores of the river. Camp dogs leaped into the shallow water, barking ferociously until Nachenum yelled a curt directive at them and they backed away. A few children, one holding the hand of a toddler who could barely walk, gathered round, their eyes big in their faces to see the newcomers with snow-colored skin. While Nathaniel and Nachenum pulled the canoe fully ashore. Uncas helped Alice disembark, noting even in his distraction that Ben was assisting Cora, and giving him a quick nod of approval.

They all stood for a few moments, surveying the evidences of human inhabitation. Fish were drying on racks by the water, up high where the dogs could not get at them, and minded by a child who had a long stick to discourage birds. Higher up, the familiar tangle of wikwams was grouped closely together, just visible beyond the trees. The sky was the shocking deep blue of late summer. A boy around Ben's age came running down, gave a quick greeting to the men and stared at Ben for a few moments before disappearing as fast as he had arrived.

Uncas shouldered his and Alice's packs and took her hand, as he had last year, when they had arrived in a similar fashion. He wondered if she were remembering. Together, followed by Nachenum, Cora and Nathaniel, and the boy, they walked up to the main clearing.

His aunt's younger daughter, Sanquen, appeared at the door of a wikwam, her wan face lighting up when she saw them before she composed her features, mindful that she was now almost the age to be considered a woman. "Cousins, you have come. Will you see my mother? She has been waiting for you. Your father sits with her now."

Mindful of the number of their party, Uncas suggested to Sanquen that she take the girls and Ben to get something to eat while he and Nathaniel went in.

The strong scent of medicinal herbs assailed their senses as they stooped to enter the dwelling. Their aunt lay on a pile of hides, her form still except for a very slight breathing. Chingachgook turned his head to look at them. "I expected you sooner."

Neither Uncas nor Nathaniel pointed out that they had come as soon as they could. They both knelt for his official acknowledgment; it had been eight moons since Uncas had seen his father and almost an entire year since Nathaniel had. To reflect this, Chingachgook might have given his hand to his adoptive son first, but he laid a hand on both of their heads at the same time, before bidding them to sit comfortably after their journey.

"How is _Nohkumihs_?" Nathaniel asked. "She looks much more frail since last summer."

"She does not eat enough," Chingachgook said. "Our healer says there is nothing more to do for her; that she may recover, but it is more likely she will not. The illness has taken too much of her strength."

The three of them looked at the woman in silence for a time. Then Chingachgook addressed Nathaniel. "How does my dark-haired daughter-in-law?"

"Well, thank you, _Nohsh_."

"And what of your stay in the city this past winter?"

"Very pleasant. We were able to bring back many supplies by wagon. Uncas and I spent the spring building a second cabin for Cora and myself. You are welcome to stay with us at any time."

Chingachgook gave him a shrewd look. "It has been months since you married; am I to expect any grandchildren?"

Nathaniel kept a straight face and replied respectfully, "Not yet, _Nohsh._"

"And you." The older Mohegan man turned his incisive brown eyes on Uncas. "How goes it with yours?"

"We are both well, Father." It was not a lie, Uncas thought, although it felt like one as soon as it left his mouth. But his voice had been steady and he knew his father had no reason to challenge such a reply. And indeed, Chingachgook looked satisfied. "I am glad that all is well. Have you eaten?"

Nathaniel said that they had not, and they left the wikwam together to seek out the communal food.

"We did not come alone from Albany, Father," Nathaniel explained as they walked, switching to English in order to avoid anyone else being privy to their conversation. "We brought a boy with us, an orphan. He is mixed-blood Munsee and Dutch."

"Unfortunate combination," Chingachgook observed, "since both are peoples of few words. Perhaps he cannot speak at all?"

Nathaniel shared an amused glance with Uncas past their father's head. "He does not like to talk," Nathaniel agreed. "But that is no failing as long as he can think. And Uncas has been teaching him. He has improved greatly, though he may still have some difficulty here. We were hoping, Father, that he would be able to stay at the camp, become a Delaware by assimilation."

Chingachgook grunted. "I have no personal objection, though I would find another sponsor or sponsors if you have doubts on his behalf. One voice to speak for him is insufficient. His appearance?"

"He can pass for Delaware if you don't look too closely."

"So you always could, but for your sky-colored eyes," Chingachgook pointed out. "Ah, I see him now."

They had drawn closer to the center of the camp, where the cooking fire burned almost continually, heating the contents of a pot. Cora and Alice, attended by Sanquen, were eating the corn soup. Ben crouched by them, his ragged European-style clothes marking him as an outsider, though his tangle of long dark hair was unremarkable compared to any of the other boys, some of whom were gathered round.

Uncas made the formal introduction of Ben, using his newly-learned name, to his father. He tilted his head slightly towards Chingachgook, knowing that Ben was looking to him to know what to do. Ben scrambled up and made the proper greeting, which Chingachgook accepted. That attended to, greetings were exchanged between the women and their father-in-law, and Uncas and Nathaniel settled down to partake of some hot food.

A lad approached Uncas (he thought it was one of Machque and Nachenum's cousins but couldn't be sure) and, indicating Ben, asked forthrightly, "Who is he?"

"Ask him yourself," Uncas answered.

"Who are your parents?" the boy demanded, turning to Ben.

To admit that he did not know his father would instantly mark him. But Ben remained silent, so Uncas put in, "He is Haqui-niisha, of the Munsee."

"He looks different," the boy challenged.

"So would you if you grew up in the city. It is a very different place." Uncas gave Ben a gentle push forwards. "Now take him along with you and your friends. Stay out of trouble."

Cora looked on, a little worriedly, but Nathaniel squeezed her hand. Ben, too, looked uncertain. But the other boy did not find anything unusual in this request and started away, lingering for a moment until Ben joined him, and they ran off.

With that temporarily taken care of, and all of them having had a comfortable midday meal, Uncas asked Alice if she wanted to rest. Cora expressed her desire to wash and change before anything else, and Alice agreed, so Sanquen said that she would take them. Before going off with the women, she informed Nathaniel and Uncas that a wikwam had been emptied to house all four of them, and asked rather uncertainly if that would suit. Both men concurred; they had assumed that their sleeping quarters in the camp would of necessity be shared.

Nachenum had gone back to reconnect with his own family, and Chingachgook to his sister, their father having advised them to come by again later when she would likely be awake for a brief period. Until then, Nathaniel and Uncas were left with nothing to do, so they went to investigate the wikwam that would be theirs for the duration of their stay.

Nathaniel stretched out on the provided sleeping hides and tucked his hands behind his head with a sigh, looking up at the circle of blue revealed by the smoke hole. "Not as nice as our cabin," he admitted, "but still, better than being rained upon, eh?"

Uncas set their packs down along the wall. "You might still be rained upon in your cabin. You're the one who finished the roof."

Nathaniel snatched up a pebble from the ground and threw it at him, albeit without any great speed. Uncas caught it with his left hand.

"Anything troubling you, Brother?" Nathaniel spoke lightly, but with a perceptivity in his gaze.

Uncas thought about that for a few minutes before replying. Nathaniel would never push him to talk, which he appreciated, or demand an immediate answer. It made it easier to give one. "Thinking about the boy," he said at last. "If I did enough." This was part of the truth, although his relationship with Alice occupied a greater part of his thoughts.

"You've done more than can be expected of you," Nathaniel said, a little distantly. "If a person does not take what is offered, the giver cannot be blamed."

Uncas grunted in assent, but the obscurity of this remark gave him cause to wonder if Nathaniel knew what else was bothering him, since it seemed, in some way, to apply to that situation too.


	10. Chapter 10

Later on, Sanquen came to tell the two couples that her mother was awake and wished to see all of them. Cora and Alice were reluctant to attend; Cora, because she did not want to be reminded why she and Nathaniel had to postpone moving into their new house together, and Alice, because the old woman had not made a very good impression on her the previous year. But Nathaniel was adamant that a possibly dying individual's wishes could not be ignored, no matter how inconvenient; and Uncas agreed with him. So, changed into fresh dresses, and the grime of the last few days of travel washed from them, Cora and Alice accompanied their men to the wikwam of the aunt.

Alice wrinkled her nose at the air thick with smoking herbs. "Surely they don't think this will help?" she whispered to her sister as they tried to find room to sit near the doorflap while Nathaniel and Uncas approached their relative, who greeted them feebly.

"I don't know," Cora murmured back. "She does look very poorly, doesn't she?"

"If she dies," Alice said, "that would be sad, but if she lives...we will have come all this way for nothing."

"Alice!" But it was nothing Cora had not thought herself and the guilty look on her sister's face told Alice so.

Unrepentantly Alice tossed her head. She felt in need of some diversion after the days of forest tramps and the nights of pine needles in her bed. She hoped that Nathaniel and Uncas didn't intend for them to stay there all night. It was not as if they spoke Mohegan and could participate in the conversation, nor could the aunt talk to them, so it seemed pointless. She would rather be in their own wikwam, which, while it was likely to be just as boring, at least they could talk freely in.

"I wouldn't mind it so much if we knew how long we were going to have to stay," Alice added, whispering, since she didn't want to be overheard by the men. "Really the only advantage is that we don't have to find and cook our own food."

"That was what I liked about being in the city," Cora said, mindful that Nathaniel had just shot her a look indicating that he thought their discussion inappropriate. "Of course there were unpleasant things then, too, but it was heavenly to have meals on a proper table in a proper setting...and the food was always so good."

"It does sound lovely." Alice played with the fraying cuff of her blue dress, frowning as she realized this was her best dress—the one Cora had brought for her in the spring—and it was already looking worn and old. "I should adore to be able to ring a bell again and have someone come running with tea."

"And instead we get dead snakes for breakfast!"

Alice swallowed a giggle and crushed her mouth into her sleeve. "Cora, stop." She knew they were being silly but it was enjoyable nonetheless. She had had too much of serious expressions and mundane practicalities. Suddenly even the sombre bedside scene with the two men, their father, and the ill aunt seemed ridiculous; it was just too much. She felt herself shake with silent laughter.

Nathaniel and the aunt were saying something back and forth and after a moment Uncas rose and came over to Alice, took her by the elbow gently but forcefully and led her out of the wikwam. Cora looked askance as they left, but remained where she was.

Uncas let go of Alice outside, some distance away, and then stared her down. "What is wrong with you?"

Alice, slightly overwhelmed by the sudden shock of coming out of the drugging, medicinal atmosphere into the fresh evening air, blinked at him for a moment. He seemed unaccountably angry.

"I don't know," she said. She did not mean to sound flippant or childish but the reply sounded so, even to her own ears.

"You might show some respect," he said.

"I'm sorry." But she did not feel sorry, she suddenly felt her own anger at being talked to thus. He didn't understand. He had no idea how hard this was for her, to come all the way here and then be lectured on her behaviour. She hadn't wanted to come in the first place, and especially hadn't wanted to come tonight. All she wanted was a little relief from the stresses of the past month. Alice's indignance grew. She had recently learned of and had to deal with her own father's death and here he was talking about an aunt who was not even dead yet. It was intolerable.

"I'm sorry," she said again, coldly, because she could see that he had taken the first apology as an instinctive reply only.

Uncas looked as if he had something else to say but thought better of it. "You and your sister had better go back to the wikwam."

"Fine," she said, and an internal demon compelled her to append cuttingly, "that is, if you are sure it is _safe_ for us to go by _ourselves_."

She knew that it was not fair to make light of the care he and Nathaniel took over their safety; she knew that doubly because of what had happened last year when she had been abducted. But it was too late to unsay it; nor did she even want to. He needed to know that she did not always wish to be told what to do and where to go.

Uncas did not let her see what, if any, effect this remark had on him; he maintained an even expression and turned, disappearing back into the wikwam, and a moment later Cora appeared, widening her eyes at Alice, in part humor and part genuine dismay. "What was that about?"

"Let's go back and I'll tell you."

They walked through the darkening camp, aware that, as always, some stares were thrown their way by the other inhabitants; but Alice was too cross to care.

"Honestly," she said, once they were in the confines of their own space, and had spread out hides to make a comfortable spot to sit on. "Sometimes, Uncas treats me as if I am feeble-minded."

Cora regarded her a little doubtfully and then glanced away.

"What is that look for?"

"Nothing. It is just something I once heard Nathaniel say."

"Tell me!"

"It will just make you angrier," Cora demurred.

"Tell me regardless."

Her sister sighed. "He said that the king of England could not possibly treat his queen any better than Uncas treats you."

Alice digested that. At any other time she supposed it might have pleased her but Cora had been right; it irritated now. "What could you have been talking about that he would say such a thing?"

"I don't remember. It was just a peculiar comment, as if..."

"What?"

Cora fiddled with the tanned edge of the deerhide. "As if he meant that he thought Uncas was too good for you? I don't know, Alice, I am sure I am mistaken."

"I am sure you are not. That is probably just what he meant. Uncas is his brother, after all." Alice heard how cold she sounded and was impressed despite herself. "I am not truly angry, Cora; it is only a temporary frustration. Think no more of it."

Cora was about to answer when they heard shuffling outside. They both paused for a moment to listen, and then Cora moved to the doorflap and held it aside. "Oh, Ben, it's you."

Ben came in, ducking his head. "Where I will sleep?" he asked, and when they both looked at him, he added softly, seeming embarrassed, "I don't have house."

"We don't have a house either," Alice said.

"Alice. Ben, don't worry, of course you must sleep here, until we leave." Cora pulled one of the hides free and placed it near the central fire. "Lie down, dear. Did you have enough dinner?"

Though Alice did not truly resent Ben's presence—he was something of a fixture in any case, having been around so long that she scarcely noticed him—she felt irritated that they could not continue their conversation. Her sister had suddenly gotten motherly again, fussing over Ben, already having forgotten their discussion.

Alice fished out her cloak from her pack and spread it over the hides to cushion their roughness. She turned her back on the other two and stared at the wikwam wall, thinking that Uncas, if he knew what was good for him, had better not attempt to sleep anywhere near her when he and Nathaniel came back for the night. Despite this thought, there was a tiny niggling realization at the back of her mind that said he was more than likely not going to want to. But she told herself she didn't care.

* * *

"Walk with me, Uncas." It was neither a request nor an order, but something in between. Chingachgook rose from the bedside and gestured to Nathaniel that he should keep vigil now that his aunt had fallen back asleep.

Uncas followed his father outside. The night had come while they were within, and its coolness was a blessing on their faces after the hazy air of the wikwam. Around them, the camp sounds had abated somewhat; though dogs still barked and babies wailed, they were muted. Chingachgook took a trail that led up on a hill which overlooked most of the village; here, the stars were brighter, not having to compete with firelight.

Chingachgook was silent for a while, seeming lost in private thought; and Uncas knew better than to encourage his father to speak, although he also knew that they would, eventually, have a conversation; that was what they were doing out here. So he waited. Patience, the very virtue he had been working at instilling in young Ben, stood him in good stead with his father, who never rushed into anything, least of all in his speech.

At last Chingachgook bestirred himself; and, turning in his son's direction, said: "You told me that you were well, but your yellow-haired girl is not contented. I think this is not a surprise to you. Perhaps you could elaborate?"

Uncas had to resist the urge to tell his father he had never thought that their being banished to the solitude of a cabin for the winter was a good idea, that they had been started out completely the wrong way. But it was too late for such recriminations; now, he had to be fair and deal only in what he knew to be true.

The one trouble was, he wasn't sure himself what the truth was.

Finally he said, "As far as I know, Father, she does not like the fact that my brother and his wife have been legitimized by the laws of their country, while we cannot be."

Chingachgook considered this for a moment. "Is that the only problem?"

"I do not think so." Uncas gazed at the far ridge of black trees, beyond the village below. "She uses it as a reason to keep me away from her. Not actually..that is, not in a physical sense, but..."

"Figuratively," Chingachgook supplied.

Uncas made a dismissive motion. Such concepts were to be found in his father's books, and he had little need of them, as they lacked a practical application. "She has chosen, yet she refuses to choose. I do not know what is left for me to do."

Chingachgook said, calmly: "You did not wait, as I instructed you."

As this was not a question, but could not be contradicted, Uncas hesitated. Now that it was undeniable he realized that, rather than fearing his father's anger, he had not wished to incur his disappointment. It would not have mattered so much if he had known for a certainty that consummating their relationship had been the absolutely right thing to do. But he could scarcely defend his actions when he had his own doubts about them.

"I should have listened to you."

This was more a respectful affirmation of his parent's wisdom than an admittance of wrongdoing, and Chingachgook's somewhat skeptical grunt indicated that he was aware of it also.

"Uncas. You are my bloodson. Nathaniel will do what he will; my love for him is not less because I had no share in creating him, but it is different with you. If you deceive me, you deceive yourself. You have already rejected my counsel once in this matter; do you seek it again?"

The question was not rhetorical; it demanded a definite reply, though Uncas did not wish to give it. If he were to solicit such counsel a second time and decline to follow it, it would mean condemnation; and he could not help but think that Chingachgook's advice this time would be to give up on Alice completely.

"No, Father," he said quietly.

"Then there is nothing more for us to discuss." The older Mohegan's tone was final. Uncas knew that the tension he felt should be mitigated, but it felt the opposite.

Silence reigned for a few more moments before Uncas asked, "How much longer do you want me to stay?" He thought that Chingachgook might say that Nathaniel and Cora were to remain behind, but that he would have no further use for him and Alice.

"Until your aunt's path is determined, for the better or worse."

What he was supposed to do with Alice in the meantime, Uncas had no idea, but at least that much was settled. They had not been rejected outright.

Chingachgook made a gesture of dismissal then, and Uncas backed away, leaving his elder alone under the dark sky, with the stars for company.


	11. Chapter 11

After that first unsuccessful visit, Alice and Cora were not encouraged to return to the wikwam of the aunt. For the next few days their stay was relatively uneventful. They had meals with Sanquen and the others in the camp, but were not expected to do any work for the community, and while this lack of obligation was at first freeing, they soon realized that there was little with which to fill their time. The men did not linger around the wikwam, and the two women could not have conversations with each other all day. Cora, who complained of a nearly constant fatigue, began to take long naps in the afternoon, while Alice wandered outside, picking flowers or sitting by the river, thinking how dissatisfied she was.

Once she came up to some of the Delaware wives who were boiling concoctions for dying and staining fabric. Alice indicated through gestures that she would be willing to help them, but they seemed to think this proposition far more amusing than serious, and would not entertain the offer. Alice took umbrage at the rebuff and did not approach them again. Instead, she passed the hours playing with some of the younger children. She did not care for the older ones; to her mind they were forward, and she found their stares insolent. But the toddlers had a sweet, accepting innocence about them and she began to become fond especially of Tiskemanis' placid baby, the aptly-named Turtle, whom Sanquen was usually hauling around.

Babyminding was a novel occupation, at least. Turtle loved to sit on Alice's hip, twining his chubby fingers in her blonde hair, as she strolled about the camp. She could put him down in a patch of wildflowers and be fairly certain he would not move from the spot she had left him in, even though he could crawl. (The thought even crossed her mind once or twice in a vague way that it might not be so difficult if, someday, she and Uncas were to become parents to such a mild-natured youngster as this—although she was still too vexed at the latter personage to think too long on the subject of baby-making.)

She had just given Turtle back to his mother on one such occasion, after she had watched him until the afternoon's light was beginning to fade and he was becoming hungry, when Cora appeared, looking pale and anxious. "There you are, Alice. I have been looking everywhere for you."

"We were up on that little hill. The flowers grow so thickly there." Alice scanned her sister's face. "Has something happened?"

"Yes," Cora murmured. "Something has happened. Alice...I believe that I...may be with child."

Coming on the heels of Alice's own fancies about such a possibility, this news felt rather flat and distasteful. "Really?" she said at last, slowly. "Have you told Nathaniel?"

"No, of course not. I had to tell my own sister first. Besides...I still only suspect." Cora took her arm and together they started to walk back through the camp to their dwelling. "But if I am right, then we cannot stay here. We must leave as soon as possible."

Alice felt bewildered. "Cora, if so, would it not be better to stay? There are women here who could help. I know nothing about such things..."

"I will not give birth to a child in an Indian camp," Cora said vehemently. "Nor could I spend half a year here, waiting to do so...Rather I would do it alone in the wilderness—but ideally, in my own home."

Alice did not know what to say to this. A small part of her felt vaguely affronted, for Uncas's sake, by Cora's absolute rejection of the idea of remaining amongst the Delaware; although she herself thought that she might feel the same way, were she in her sister's position.

"You must tell Nathaniel," she said, after a brief pause. "I will leave you alone, if you want to tell him, tonight."

Cora squeezed her hand. "Oh, Alice, I had not been feeling like myself for some time and I did not understand why. I think now I know...it is easier. Yes, I will talk to Nathaniel tonight. And now I must go in and lie down—I am so very tired."

Alice left her sister with a quick kiss and a promise to check on her later, and then she backed out of the wikwam. _Where to go? _As she stood there, indecisive, Ben ran by with a couple of other youngsters. He stopped, seeing her, and hesitated, as if he might say something, and then darted away again. _To be a boy_, Alice thought. To have nothing to do but run about and shoot bows and go fishing. For was it not girls and women who endured all the world's hardships? She realized she had meant to ask Ben where he had been sleeping; after that first night he had not shown up at the wikwam again, and Cora had asked her to find out if possible.

She wondered, too, where Nathaniel was. Uncas, it could be assumed, was still holding court at the bedside of Chingachgook's sister, as befitted a loyal nephew, she thought drearily. But she had seen Nathaniel leave with Nachenum earlier in the afternoon while she had been up on the hill with Turtle. Perhaps they were hunting. If that were the case, Nathaniel might not even be back that night. Alice wandered a little down the dusty camp path, then stopped, turning.

She felt at odds with everyone and everything.

Her name was called. It was Sanquen who had hailed her, brown eyes concerned as she trotted up, saying something in her quick sweet voice. Alice obediently let herself be ushered back into the groups of wikwams.

Uncas's cousin squeezed her forearm, as if to tell her to stay; then darted off, reappearing shortly a bowl of gruel and urging her to eat from it. Alice complied without argument, though she did not feel particularly hungry; at least her next few moments were being occupied, at least it gave her something to do. She smiled wanly at Sanquen, thinking that there was something very kind and knowing about the girl's eyes, although she was not so far out of childhood. Given the age difference, Alice could not have considered her as a confidante, even if they had shared a language; but it was nice to be treated sympathetically.

She had not spent any time with Uncas at all in the past week. He arrived at the wikwam after she fell asleep (and it was only from waking in the night she knew this), and was gone in the mornings when she woke, although Alice could not blame him for that because she often did not rise until midmorning, as there was so little to do once she did get up. If they happened to encounter each other about the camp he might ask her shortly if she was in want of anything and then be on his way once she replied that she was not. In fact she was in want of a great deal of things but she did not believe he could provide her with any of them.

Nachenum she had thought might spare her a cordial glance, at least, as they were acquaintances; but he too seemed to avoid her now that the journey was over. So Sanquen was the only friendly face besides Cora's that she had seen in some time. And, Alice had to admit, although she was pretending she did not care, it was becoming very wearisome indeed.

After eating, she thanked Sanquen for the food, receiving a smile for her troubles, and retraced her steps back to their wikwam, thinking to tell Cora that she remembered she had seen Nathaniel leaving to hunt earlier, and to advise her sister not to be worried in the event that her husband was not back by nightfall.

But by the time she made it back to their dwelling, Cora was already sleeping. Alice had forgotten that she had intended to take her nap. It seemed unimportant to disturb her now, so Alice quietly settled down in her own space and prepared to wait until she woke.

_I wonder that Cora can sleep at all, with such news to think about. How did this happen? Well...not_ how_ did it happen, exactly...yet...a baby should have had the decency to wait until we were in our own homes. What if I—but no, I will not think such things._

_Cora will be a good mother. She was gentle with Ben when he frustrated the rest of us. A baby with her curls would be very sweet. Though maybe it will look like Nathaniel. _Alice frowned. It wasn't that she thought Nathaniel ill-favored, but she had a hard time imagining his sharp features in an infant's form. Better to picture the child with her sister's sparkling dark eyes and pleasing coloring. _I will be its aunt. They should have a boy. A boy will have an easier life. Oh, I am growing cynical, am I not? But it is no surprise if I am! Nothing but toil and drudgery. No excitement or diversion._

Her eyes fell on Uncas' journeybag, which he appeared to have left slightly open that morning, sitting against the wall. She had always wondered what he kept in there, since it seemed to contain a multitude of items that changed from time to time. It occurred to her as she crawled over and pulled the bag to her own space that she might well find something in there that she did not want to see...a scalp, perhaps. How gruesome! But there was a frisson of excitement in the idea of going through his things since he was always so circumspect...and she was so very bored.

Her wish for diversion was not to be satisfied until near the bottom of the bag her fingers encountered paper. What could it be? She extracted a wrinkled envelope with wonder, and turned it over to see to whom it was addressed. Herself and Cora. Where could Uncas possibly have found this and why had he not given it to them? Alice glanced over at Cora, but her sister was still soundly asleep underneath the furs.

The seal on the envelope was already broken.

_August -, 1757_

_Dear Miss Munro, and Miss Alice,_

_I write to you at the behest of your father, Colonel George Munro, who is my cousin. I trust that this letter finds you safely in his care, as he communicated to me that he has been expecting you at the fort for some days now. I can only imagine how the journey from England was; I made the trip myself as a young bride, many years ago now, and should not want to do it again. It is my understanding that you are to be wed, Miss Munro; may I offer you my congratulations and blessing? I do not know how long you will be under your father's care, or where you plan to eventually settle with your husband, but I wish to extend an open invitation to my home here in Albany for a visit at any time that you may find yourself in the city. It would be my pleasure to have either of you ladies stay with me for as long as you wished. My late husband left me well-appointed and there is plenty of room here on Chestnut Street. Anyone may give you directions. I hope either to hear from you soon, announcing your safe arrival on these shores and at Fort Oswego, or to meet you in person._

_My kindest regards and best wishes,_

_Mary Elizabeth Gordon _

Alice read the letter twice through and then sat staring, feeling her fingers grow cold as she clutched the paper. To hear from a relative here in America, and another woman—who must surely better understand what it was like to live in such circumstances—was a sudden, unexpected gift. But it was difficult to receive quite as gladly knowing that it had not actually been delivered to her. When had it come into Uncas's possession? The envelope was so dirty and wrinkled that it could not have been a recent acquisition.

Alice felt a slow passion of anger building in her breast. And then she realized that she could not confront Uncas with the letter; to do so would be to admit that she had gone through his belongings. She did not care if that would make him angry or not, but it was such a juvenile thing to do that she felt she would not be able to face him with the proper amount of outrage.

_Should I not give it to Cora? Cora surely does not know of its existence._ Yet a tiny seed of doubt lodged itself somewhere inside her mind, reminding her—_They did not think you should be aware of your own father's death; how less important would they consider the contents of this letter?_ Oh, it was not unlikely. She would say nothing to her sister. Even if Cora did not know, she had her own news to think about; and an outdated letter from a distant relation would not be of singular value to her now.

Scanning the letter through once more, Alice quickly folded it back up and tucked it inside the envelope, then placed it back at the bottom of Uncas's bag. She put the bag back against the wall where it had been, and then sat cross-legged on her mat of hides, watching Cora sleep.

Things were very, very not right.

* * *

It was not generally expected that hunters in twos bring back any more meat than what they and their immediate families could consume, so once Nathaniel and Nachenum had caught a plump summer rabbit and a couple of quail, they decided to head back instead of spending the night in the forest. The meat would be enough for them to bring back to their wikwams, and Sanquen could later stew the bones into a nourishing broth for her mother.

Fish was the mainstay of the Delaware diet, but Nathaniel preferred fowl if it could be come by. He had the dressed rabbit and quail slung over his shoulder now as they moved through the forest back in the direction of the village. The evening was warm and pleasant. He and Nachenum had barely exchanged a word that afternoon, having fallen into the practical silence of men with a common task ahead of them, but now Nachenum looked back and asked if they were going to eat together.

Nathaniel said he didn't think so; Cora and Alice were likely already retired and so it would be best to cook the meat by the communal fire. He would bring them their portions later, and some to Uncas and his father.

Nachenum acknowledged that, and they came into camp just as the sun had fallen as far as the tops of the trees. They were not the only people to be using the fire; several other families were already gathered around it, some cooking fresh fish that had been caught that day, some children helping themselves to the pot of bubbling corn. Before long they had their own meat spitted and started roasting.

Uncas appeared by the time the meat was done. Nathaniel, thinking his brother looked tired, offered him a slightly blackened rabbit leg. He wondered if he should have suggested that Uncas accompany them in the woods; Uncas had been spending most of his time keeping Chingachgook company by the aunt's sick bed. He wondered if his brother were doing penance for something. It seemed likely, given his more sombre than normal expression.

"How does _Nohkumihs_?" Nathaniel inquired, since he had not been by to see her that day—nor yesterday, if memory served. He did not feel especially guilty for this, since their aunt had always preferred Uncas to him, but the call of duty was inexorable.

Uncas gestured, indicating that her condition had not changed noticeably. He stripped the remaining meat from the rabbit leg and tossed the bone to one of the dogs who had been circling hopefully around his feet for the last few minutes.

Ben approached from out of the shadows, unaccompanied. He wore different clothing of uncertain origin that more resembled what the Delaware wore. Watching him come near, Nathaniel thought that what distinguished him now was really more of an attitude, the way he held his head and shoulders.

"Want something to eat, _Xanikw_?" The old nickname was hard to forget. Perhaps realizing this, Ben did not seem offended. He waited as Nathaniel stripped off a portion from the cooked underside of the quail and gave it to him.

"The other boys your own age," Uncas said. "Where are they?"

Ben shrugged as he began to chew, saying around the food, "There is no one same my age. Some younger, most older."

Nathaniel privately thought that this might well be a good thing; Ben was the type of child that would be too competitive with his peers, though he could learn from the older boys. But Uncas frowned slightly. "So you aren't going with them when they go to the river or practice with their bows?"

"One time," Ben said, with an air of unconcern.

"That boy who was here the first day. Nachenum's cousin. What was his name, brother?"

It was Nathaniel's turn to shrug, thinking that Uncas was unduly concerned over Ben's progress. "Can't remember." He poured out a ladle of soup and offered some to Ben, since the boy still looked hungry. Ben accepted it and sipped at it, sucking through his teeth as the corn continued to bubble in the utensil.

Uncas persisted, "He's not watching out for you?"

Ben shook his head. "Just first day," he said, indifferently.

"And where have you been at nights?"

Ben waved a hand vaguely in an approximation of Uncas's earlier gesture. "Thank you for food. I will go." He darted away as suddenly as he had come, a sudden reminder to Nathaniel of how quick the boy had been in the city when he had first caught him trying to pick his pocket.

He helped himself to more corn soup. The meat was good, but did not fill one up completely. Besides, he meant to take the rest of it to Cora and Alice.

"Something wrong?" he said, realizing that Uncas was still staring into the shadows between the wikwams where Ben had disappeared.

"Yes," Uncas said. "Something is wrong."


	12. Chapter 12

_I should have suspected long ago, really_, Cora chided to herself. _There was so much that was unusual for me...so much that did not make sense at the time, but now, I understand. I am not going mad. I am going to have a child. _

It was a frightening thought that, at the same time, made her feel almost delirious with happiness. She had considered the possibility of pregnancy while in Albany, but the long move back to the cabin, and their communal stay in it, had put such ideas temporarily out of her mind. It had been something she had thought might not happen until later in their marriage, once they were properly settled within their own four walls. Now the cabin was built; but here they were, on the wrong side of the country, far from it.

They would simply have to return. As soon as possible, to avoid any complications. Cora did not know much about what her expectant state would bring over the next few months, but she was sure that the longer she waited, the more problems another two-week journey would pose.

What would Nathaniel think of such a proposition? She was soon to find out. Perhaps he would not be happy at this alteration to their plans to spend as much time here as was needed until his aunt got better—or failed to—but it could not be helped. Surely their having a baby, and ensuring its safe arrival in their own home, was more important than an ailing relative. She could only hope that Nathaniel would agree.

The nap had refreshed and relaxed her, and now Cora was beginning to grow hungry. Was it only the knowledge that a being was taking shape inside her, requiring nourishment, that made her think so? She pushed aside the hides and scooted over to the entrance of the wikwam, pulling back the flap—and shrieked in surprise as she saw Nathaniel right outside just preparing to come in. "Oh! You frightened me."

"Sorry," he said. "I should have been more noisy."

"Yes, you should have." Cora sighed and backed up, making room for him to come in. "You brought me dinner! Lovely."

"Well, it is not much but the best the cook could whip up at short notice. And it's not snake," Nathaniel teased, watching her set upon the meat. "Alice is not here?"

Cora shook her head. "I left her outside, much earlier. Perhaps she is at Tiskemanis' wikwam? Will you check in a little while? But first we must talk."

He smiled, amused at the way she was already talking and eating at the same time, with unusual vigor. "All right."

"Husband." Cora finished the portion of food and stared at Nathaniel, unable to keep the news to herself any longer. Then she realized she was beginning to blush, which was strange; it was not as if they had not discussed the possibility of progeny before, but she knew he was not in any way expecting what she was about to tell him. "Do you recall, last winter, when I asked you...how you would feel if we were to have a child?"

"Yes," Nathaniel said, his gaze suddenly intensifying.

"And...you said that it would be better if it waited. Until next year."

Nathaniel said nothing, but seemed not to be breathing.

"I think that...next year...has arrived." She smiled, very tentatively.

"When?" Nathaniel said, sounding a little strangled.

"I am not sure, but we must prepare for sometime in the early spring."

"No...I mean when? We were barely alone—"

"There were a few instances," Cora said, knowing her cheeks were heating still further. "We must go back at once, must we not?"

Nathaniel rolled backwards from his heels into a sitting position, looking as stunned now as she had expected him to (but not, thankfully, angry). "Must we?"

Cora knew instinctively that her attitude would have to stem from the view of wanting to be in their own home, rather than seeming that she simply did not want to be in the camp. With Alice she had been quite clear, but men did get offended so easily and she did not want him to misunderstand. "Well, I would like to prepare our home for the baby. I will need time for that, and I want to have my things around me when it comes." The quaver in her voice was not affected. To be back in the cabin was what she most desired, now more than ever. It seemed of utmost importance.

Nathaniel was quiet for a little while. "I suppose that is fair," he said at last. "Cora...this is...unforeseen. You should be wherever you will be comfortable, but if we are to leave, I must consult with Father."

Cora supposed that Chingachgook would have to know, and Uncas too, although she felt embarrassed at the idea of anyone else being made aware of her condition. It seemed like it should be a private thing, just between herself and Nathaniel...although that was scarcely possible. She nodded. "And we will go? As soon as possible, husband, before the weather changes again—next week?"

Nathaniel nodded, but as if he was not really listening to her.

"It is already the last month of summer," Cora reminded him. "Fall will be here by the time we can be back."

"You are right," he said. "I will talk to Father, and my brother."

"Are you not happy, Nathaniel?"

He gave her a weak smile that was all the more endearing for its uncertainty. "I think I'm afraid." Then he enfolded her in his arms and squeezed her so tightly that for a moment she could scarcely breathe, and murmured words of love in her ear.

Cora smiled back, relief flooding her. All would be well. Everything was going to work out. He would talk with his family, and they would leave together, returning to her own home, to prepare for the arrival of their first son or daughter. Surely it was God's own will that it be so.

* * *

Instinct had never yet led Uncas astray; he depended upon it for survival nearly as much as he depended on his senses, experience, and accumulated knowledge. His father had always taught him the ways in which properly honed instinct would protect not only his own life but the lives of his companions. It was instinct that now showed Uncas where to go in search of young Ben, though the forest was so darkened as to make seeing his way ineffective. He had to _know_ his way. He tasted the air, listened to what there was to hear. Finding something that was lost—or that had been stolen—was a skill he had nurtured from an early age. It was not given to just anybody. So said Chingachgook, although Uncas himself believed it could be taught, at least to some degree. It was one of the lessons he wished he had had the time to inculcate in Ben; how much more valuable was the ability to find than to steal.

He followed the path made by the boy's moccasins; he paused by branches that had been bent in the boy's wake; he could even feel his desolation, which resounded through, and against, the surrounding trees in an almost palpable manner. He did not wonder where Ben had gone, or why. He simply knew.

South of the river, the forest grew thickly, almost jungle-like in composition, with massive trees shooting upwards into the sky. Uncas crossed through the shallow part of the river and stood for a moment on its opposite shore, listening, his head tilted upwards. There was silence, beyond the normal forest and river sounds; but he could smell grief, and uncertainty.

Ben was curled, like a puppy, among a nest of branches in the undergrowth at the base of one of the big trees. When Uncas knelt and put a hand on his shoulder Ben struggled to sit up, his breath coming out in soft little puffs of fright.

"_Xanikw,_" Uncas said quietly. "It's me."

The boy held tense for a moment longer before slumping back somewhat. "What you want?"

"Why are you not in the wikwam?"

"Not my place. Not my house."

Uncas looked up at the canopy of stars above them. It was another warm summer night, but soon the weather would be changing. "Well, when you're old enough you can make your own house, but right now you need somewhere to stay, and the camp is all you have."

"Not have," Ben said defiantly. "_Nothing_ have."

Uncas stared at him for a while. He couldn't really fault the boy for not wanting to share a borrowed wikwam with the women, and he suspected that was at least part of the reason Ben was here. "If you don't want to stay with us, I can ask one of the other families to find room for you. Nachenum's cousin—"

"No!" Ben jerked away, but in a defeated, barely audible voice added, "He says I am _schiquineu._"

Uncas rubbed his face with the back of his hand, suddenly tired. The word meant fatherless, but it was an entire concept unto itself, and a negative one. "There isn't anything I can do about that."

"Kill," Ben muttered.

"We only kill enemies."

Ben leaned forward, so close that despite the darkness Uncas could see his eyes. "My enemy."

_Manto, it is like dealing with Alice when she is in a mood_. Uncas wondered what Chingachgook would say in response to such a comment. He decided not to address it. "You're coming back with me."

"Don't want."

"I know." He felt a twinge of pity for the boy, but said repressively, "You've only been in the camp a few days. Nathaniel told our father you had learned some discipline. Are you going to make a liar out of him?"

Ben shook his head, but not very definitely.

Uncas stood up. "So we go back."

"Yes."

"'Yes, older brother'," Uncas corrected.

Ben mumbled the words as if embarrassed by them. But he followed Uncas out of the undergrowth then, and back across the river.

Nathaniel met them at the outskirts of camp. "I need to talk with you and Father."

Uncas rested a hand on Ben's shoulder. "This runaway needs somewhere to sleep."

Nathaniel waved back in the direction of their wikwam, looking distracted. "He can still sleep there, as far as I know. Cora is up yet. Alice is out on the hill, if you want to go get her? And then can you come to _Nohkumihs_' wikwam?"

Uncas nodded, giving Ben a gentle push to send him off. He waited until the boy had disappeared within before circling and going up in the direction of the hill.

Alice was sitting on a rock, her unbound hair around her, glowing in the moonlight. She seemed to have fallen into a reverie because she did not notice him until she was very close.

He knew she expected him to bid her return, so he did not say anything, simply sat down among the wildflowers near her, picking one and rolling its stem idly between his fingers. After a moment Alice said, with a hint of suspicion, "Haven't you come to tell me how late it is?"

"I came," he said, "to look at the stars."

He did not see her expression now but knew she was taken aback by this. Some time passed while they sat in silence. Eventually Alice said, almost defensively, "Cora and Nathaniel wished to be alone. I had nowhere to go, so I thought I would sit outside."

Uncas made a noncommittal sound. Privately he was thinking that it seemed to be the night for runaways. At least she had not gone far.

"You don't—mind?"

_Of course I mind_, he thought. _You should not be out here alone; I would even rather have you __ask Nachenum to take you than go alone. _But if his protectiveness was making her feel trapped, rather than safe—then he had been right. He had to let her go; a little at a time, for that was all he could manage.

Perhaps it would bring her back to him.

He said, choosing his words carefully: "Stay as long as you like."

Alice stared in disbelief, as he rose, looked at her, then, giving her the flower he had been holding, went back down the hill.

It was with something approaching reluctance that Uncas arrived at his aunt's wikwam for a conference with his father and brother. He did not want to talk, nor was he inclined just to be in the presence of others for its own sake; he would far rather have spent the night as Ben had planned to do, out in the forest under a tree. But as he had just lectured Ben on the importance of discipline it would be hypocritical not to attend on Chingachgook and Nathaniel, regardless of how attractive the idea of solitude was at the moment. Summoning up inner will, he stooped to go in.

Chingachgook had been helping his sister drink a little of the broth that had been made from the boiled bones of that day's hunt, but her eyes now closed. The Mohegan used the side of his hand to gently wipe some of the spilled liquid away from her face. Watching him, Uncas thought what tender care his father took of his aunt; then again, she was the last of his generation; he had no other family besides his sons, and Uncas knew that Chingachgook believed, as he did himself, that the care he lavished on her now would reflect honorably on him, though perhaps in a different world, or another lifetime.

"Ah, Uncas." Nathaniel looked up from poking the flames. The fire was reflected in his eyes which were bright and restless.

Uncas sank into his habitual crouch by the circle of stones. Chingachgook joined him, after having pulled covers around the old woman, who had fallen back into insensibility.

"What have you to say, my son?"

"It seems, Father, that you can in fact look forward to the arrival of a grandchild this coming spring. Cora is expecting."

"That is welcome news, indeed." Chingachgook's face was as if the sun had just shone down on it.

Uncas, knowing he must react positively, though he felt rather stunned by the announcement, rose and offered his congratulations to his brother, who, he thought, had the pleased but desperate look of a man who knows his life is about to change.

"As this will be your niece or nephew, I am counting on a lot of help to raise it," Nathaniel warned with a smile.

"You shall have my help, be assured." Uncas gripped the older man's arm. But he could not feel entirely enthusiastic; things were too uncertain at the moment. It seemed a strange time for Manto to choose to bless his brother with offspring. Then again, perhaps the parents-to-be were ready for a family; and who was he to question that? He realized Nathaniel, who had turned back to Chingachgook, was saying, "Cora wishes to have the child in our own home, and I have agreed to leave as soon as possible, before travel becomes difficult for her."

Chingachgook's brows drew together. "She will not need the assistance of the midwives when the time comes?"

Nathaniel spread his hands. "Initially, I thought that staying here might be a better idea, but she is determined for us to be settled. And as it is not I who is having the baby, it follows that her wish should be granted."

Chingachgook nodded, and said sagely, "An unhappy woman will birth an unhealthy child."

"When do you go?" Uncas asked. Slowly he was realizing that if Nathaniel and Cora were shortly to depart, his role in remaining behind at his father and aunt's side was ever more significant. How he would maintain that, with an increasingly restless Alice to sort out, and an emotional, flighty Ben to be responsible for, he didn't know.

"Within the next few days, I think. Once we can set in a good store of food for the way back. I won't have time to stop and hunt."

"When you're ready, Nachenum and I can come with you back down the river," Uncas offered. "Should only take one night to reach the road."

"_Nohsh_, if you would excuse us." Nathaniel made deference to their parent and then, putting an arm around Uncas's shoulders, hustled him outdoors. They walked a little ways, out of earshot. Then Nathaniel stopped and faced him. "Brother. I see the doubt in your eyes. Do you think I will make a bad father?" He said this lightly, though his tone was shadowed with his own doubt.

"No," Uncas said. "It is not that." _How can I be so selfish as to tell him there is too much for me to do if he leaves? If it were Alice, if—Manto forbid it, not yet—she were carrying a child, I would do as he is doing._

"You have to stay," Nathaniel said, reading at least some of this on his face.

"I have to stay," Uncas agreed.

"I am sorry for that. It is not fair to leave you and Alice here, indefinitely."

"In any case, it is not just Father and _Nohkumihs_," Uncas said. "There is Ben. He needs more time. Do not worry, Brother. Clearly you must go."

"I hope that it will get easier," Nathaniel said, not specifying.

_As do I_, Uncas thought, _but trouble is on the air. _You could smell it just as you smelled fear.


	13. Chapter 13

Alice awoke to sunlight that pierced through the wikwam walls. She felt the sense of bitterness, that had been with her ever since they had arrived at the camp, twist and uncurl itself in her soul as she opened her eyes. The _not-right_ness.

Uncas asking her what was wrong with her. Did he think tossing a token daisy into her lap by starlight could make up for that? Did he think that because one time he hadn't insisted she accompany him somewhere, she now owed him forgiveness?

Did he think that he could keep the letter? _Her_ letter?

On the opposite side of the wikwam, Cora and Nathaniel were still sleeping, their bodies close together, barely visible under the cloak wrapped around both of them.

On her side, she was alone.

Her dry throat called out for water, and though she had no wish to venture outdoors, she pulled herself upright. With reluctance, squinting in the morning sun, she made her way down to the river.

He was there.

Alice thought, despite her thirst, to turn around and go back up. But he saw her; it was too late.

"Where did you sleep last night?" she asked. Her voice seemed to come from some other person, not her own.

"Under a tree," he said, matter-of-fact.

_I read the letter_, she wanted to say.

"My brother and your sister are leaving," Uncas said.

"I know," Alice said, again distantly. _Do not speak of their reason...do not do not do not..._

He did not. Perhaps he did not want to discuss it any more than she did. She was thankful. She stooped, awkwardly, to drink at the shore. The water was warm, and tasted brackish.

"I must stay here," Uncas said. He turned his head and looked directly at her now. "My father expects me."

"I suppose so." Alice cupped more water in her hands and stared at them underneath the surface of the ripples.

"And Ben cannot be left yet."

"When did Ben become your responsibility?" Alice wondered aloud.

"He trusts me," Uncas said simply.

A few more moments passed.

"You do not want to stay with me."

"No," she said. It was true. She had no desire to be in the wolf camp indefinitely. Before, she had felt she had no choice. Now she felt limitless.

"And you do not want to go back with Nathaniel and Cora?"

Alice shook her head. In a suddenly clear voice she announced, "I will go to Albany."

It shocked her. She listened, thinking that if she listened hard enough, she would hear herself say it again.

After a moment Uncas rose, looking weary. "Because of the letter? I was going to give it to you."

"When?" she shot back.

"_Wiyon-ashay_, I was not keeping it from you. There was no time."

His voice was reasonable and she knew he was probably telling her the truth. But that couldn't alter what things were.

"Regardless," she said, "I will go."

_Now he will tell me that I cannot. That we belong together; that he is sorry; that he loves me, that I cannot. _Alice twisted her fingers together, almost expectantly. She knew it would not make things right, but she still wanted to hear it. Somehow, it would help.

But Uncas did not say any of those things. Instead, he came to her side, standing close, but not touching her, then said, "I will ask someone to take you, in my place."

Alice felt her heart twist at this calm acceptance. "You do not mean to accompany me?"

He gazed into her eyes very directly. "I do not think you want me to."

She looked away first, realizing with a feeling of shame that he was at least partly right. She could not imagine him anywhere but here; to envision arriving on her relative's doorstep in the city with him at her side was impossible.

_Nor could I endure the journey down with him, just us two, when I am so confused and frustrated..._

She nodded, biting her lip.

"Let it be so," Uncas said—in Mohegan, but she understood it, just as she had when he had given his condolences about her father.

"I must make ready," she said, turning from him before her eyes had a chance to fill with tears, and hurrying away from the river.

* * *

Cora looked around the wikwam, assessing their various packs and supplies. Nathaniel insisted on bearing more of her things on the way up, so his pack was much larger than before. She hoped they had enough food. And she hoped that the weather would continue to be temperate.

Now, on the eve of their departure, she found herself filled with a new-found optimism. The first month of her missed courses she had thought nothing of it; it was not an uncommon occurrence, and the second month she had ascribed it to the worry and change of their environment. Now that she was certain she was having a child, the fatigue and ill-humor that had plagued her most of the way to the camp were easier to deal with.

Her state preoccupied her to such a degree that she was only mildly shocked when Nathaniel told her of the troubles that Alice and Uncas were having. Nathaniel's explanation, that there had been a letter that he and Uncas had forgotten, until Alice discovered it and thought they were purposely keeping it from her, satisfied Cora. She did not understand why this alone would induce Alice to make such an unconsidered decision as staying alone with a distant relative in Albany for an indeterminate length of time, but Nathaniel begged her for Uncas's sake not to inquire too closely. It seemed that Alice had her own reasons for wanting to be away from Uncas and the camp, and Nathaniel (though Cora could tell that neither did he approve of these reasons nor of her decision) did not think they should get involved. Cora accepted this as legitimate. After all, she had so much else to consider, and Nathaniel assured her that Alice would not going unaccompanied to Albany, which was Cora's biggest concern. When she ventured to ask if this meant that Uncas and Alice were establishing separate ways in a permanent sense, Nathaniel's mouth tightened and he said he did not know.

In the camp, Alice had been avoiding all of them, making her own preparations with the help of Sanquen, at Uncas' behest. Cora resolved to press her sister for more details once they were on the river together and might have a moment's solitude. She thought the situation was a rather unhappy one; but it made her long even more fiercely to have her own family protected, to have her husband and her growing child within four walls built by their own hands, to know that they, at least, were all right. Selfish it might have been, but she could not give more than a passing thought to Alice's situation until she had her own firmly secured. She had told Nathaniel so (fearing he would think ill of her) but he reassured her it was natural for expectant mothers to look inward. Cora was eager to accept this explanation.

* * *

Uncas had meant to ask Nachenum to be the one to accompany Alice the remainder of the distance to the city. Other than Nathaniel, Uncas could think of no one else whose skill and instincts he trusted quite so well. It would be a humbling proposition, but he had limited options. Taking her himself would be to defeat the purpose of letting her go in the first place.

Chingachgook intercepted him the night before, however, with the unerring sense of timing he had long ago realized his father possessed. He had not spoken directly to his parent of their adjusted plan, since they had already established that he was not in need of his father's counsel on relationship matters; but Chingachgook had heard from Nathaniel, as Nathaniel had also relayed to Cora the relevant details.

As they waited by the fire, having just finished the ritual prayer over the ailing aunt, Chingachgook said to him: "If you have no objection, I will take her."

"I cannot ask you to do that, Father."

"You did not," Chingachgook pointed out. "It is my offer, and the most reasonable solution. She cannot go alone. We are already indebted to Nachenum for making a journey on our behalf; moreover, he has never been to the city. And you will not go yourself."

Uncas bowed his head in agreement, in acceptance.

"I will see her safely to the house of her relative, and ensure she is taken in before returning," Chingachgook continued, with an air of finality. "If the weather holds, I can be back by the next moon."

"Thank you, Father."

"In my absence, you will continue to care for your aunt, with the help of your cousins. If she should pass on before I come back, you know what rituals must be performed. Now go, my son, and rest; it grows late."

So it was that, the following morning, when Cora and Nathaniel made ready to leave in the canoe, Chingachgook and Alice were with them. Alice was pale and wrapped in her cloak, with the hood up; Cora and Nathaniel distracted, trying to think of any last-minute arrangements or necessities; Chingachgook was silent, taking his place in the stern of the canoe, the women in the middle, Nathaniel in the bow.

Uncas, Sanquen, Nachenum and Ben were there at the riverside to watch them go. Sanquen and Nachenum remained respectfully silent, both knowing better than to disturb the parting with words; but Ben, with the directness of the young, asked of Uncas: "Why she is leaving?"

Sanquen made a curt shushing sound, but it had already been said; and after a little while Uncas answered, "Because she must."

"Why you do not—" Ben began, and this time it was Nachenum who caught him around the shoulders and tugged him back, reprovingly, putting a hand over his mouth. "Now listen, _Xanikw._ Inside every person is a spirit, yes? Do you understand? But some people have two spirits. They don't look any different from anyone else. But those spirits sometimes drag the person in different ways. They can't be satisfied. Still understand? So the person must follow one spirit at one time, and another time, the other."

Uncas looked down at the boy to see if he had followed Nachenum's rather hastily issued explanation.

Ben considered it. Then he met Uncas's gaze. "You believe?"

"I don't know," Uncas said. "Perhaps that is what your mother had in mind, when she named you."

He watched the canoe as it moved swiftly downriver, propelled by both the force of the current and the strong paddles of his father and brother, to whom he had bidden farewell the night before. He watched the slight, still form of Alice, whose hand he had touched just for a moment in the privacy of the wikwam that morning, before she had left. Her fingers had been as cold as last winter's snow, and he had thought he could no longer keep her warm; no longer protect her, keep her safe, until she wanted him to again. But Uncas had little faith of that happening; just as in the dead of winter, it was impossible to believe one would ever feel the true heat of the sun again. He knew he could find her; he could always find her, no matter where she went, or how far; but that held small comfort if she did not want him to.

For a while they stood there after the canoe had disappeared out of sight. Then Nachenum put a hand on Uncas's shoulder. "Come, _nexisemes_, will you eat?"

"Yes, cousin," Sanquen urged, seeing him hesitate. "I helped prepare the food this morning and it is particularly good."

He was grateful for their unvoiced support, for their distraction, even for Ben, who scampered along at his heels like a loyal puppy as they walked back up to the camp.

It was hard not to look back at the river, knowing she was still there, beyond the bend. It was hard; but he had done it, he had summoned up the discipline to let her go.

And Uncas already knew that living with that decision was going to take every last bit of discipline he possessed.

* * *

It was an unnerving surprise for Alice to discover that Chingachgook was the one to accompany her to Albany; rather she would have had it been Nachenum, who at least could not berate nor lecture her. But Uncas's father, while he had not addressed her at all throughout the day, had offered food and water at the noon hour with no criticism apparent in his bearing. Neither did Cora nor Nathaniel attempt to draw her into what would have been unwelcome conversation; they spoke occasionally of inconsequential things, but for the most part, the day's travel was brisk and quiet.

By nightfall, therefore, Alice felt herself beginning to relax a little. No one was bothering her with difficult questions, and as long as she did not think of who and what she left behind at the camp, she could, in a way, believe that she was happy. After all, the diversion she longed for was upon her; the sense that she was being stifled was gone. What more was there? An uneasiness about the future, to be sure; but the future would, it must, look after itself.

Curling down by the fire, she wrapped herself in her cloak to sleep, thinking that slumber would come easily; but sleep when she did fall into it was not satisfying, and Alice stirred several times before midnight.

At one such point she heard voices and realized groggily that she was the subject of discussion.

"We have talked about this already," Cora was saying, her soft tones reasonable.

"I just think it is damned unfair." Nathaniel's voice was harsh. Alice was startled; he rarely used such strong language.

"If it were me, what would you do?"

There was a pause. "I don't know. You are my wife, but if you weren't—I might very well say the hell with it."

"Nathaniel." Cora sounded shocked.

"I am being honest. Uncas is a good man, you know that." Nathaniel was quiet for a moment and then he added, "She doesn't deserve him."

Alice sat upright, feeling as if she had been slapped. Humiliating as it was to be eavesdropping, their conversation was impossible to ignore any longer. Nathaniel and Cora had been lying down but at her movement Nathaniel, too, swung upright, his face taut with anger in the firelight. "What the devil is wrong with you, anyway?"

"I..." Alice had thought he might be chagrined that she had been listening instead of sleeping, but this fresh onslaught was unforeseen and she felt herself shrink back. Cora did not spring to her aid, either, but watched her with distant, slightly pitying curiosity, as if she too had the same question.

Defense came from surprising quarters. "Do not abuse my daughter-in-law," Chingachgook rumbled from the other side of the fire.

Nathaniel was undaunted by his parent's reproach. "Father, if she would but behave as a daughter-in-law, there would be no need! I have held my tongue thus far but I _will_ be answered this one question."

"You may have one question," Chingachgook accorded, his manner magisterial, "but I suggest you alter it substantially."

"Fine," Nathaniel shot back, still staring at Alice, who was biting hard on the inside of her cheek to keep her lips from trembling.

Cora laid a hand on her husband's forearm, seeing Alice's distress, but Nathaniel disregarded it. "Has my brother," he said, intensely, "ever failed to provide for you? Ever hurt you? Ever done _anything_ to give you cause to leave him, for however long, whatever your excuse."

Alice flinched away from his almost tangible wrath. She could not meet his gaze any longer and stared at a midpoint in the fire, blinking back the tears that would not be held in.

"If I thought he had," Nathaniel continued, "I would beat him myself."

"As would I," Chingachgook said. "Let her answer first, my son."

He spoke gently, though it did little to assuage Alice's heartache.

_They cannot know what it has been like for me! Nathaniel is cruel...he knows Uncas would not...but I_ have _been neglected, I have been looked over!_ Such questioning was truly beyond the bounds of endurance. But they were all looking at her. Waiting for a response.

"_Has_ he?" Nathaniel pursued, as she still hesitated.

"No," Alice said at last.

_Is he satisfied? Will he not gloat now, that I have confirmed what he already knows?_

But her sister's husband gave a grunt of exasperated ire and sprang to his feet, clearly wanting to have done with it all. He stood for a few moments and then stalked away, disappearing into the surrounding darkness.

"Forgive him, Alice," Cora murmured. "He finds it hard to understand." But her eyes, though they were sympathetic, said that she did not herself understand.

Alice choked back a sob. She would not—would _not_!—allow herself to cry freely until she was alone, however long it might take. She buried herself in her cloak, willing time to pass. Right now, waiting felt more bitter than pain.

By dawn she had barely slept at all, having dozed off only out of exhaustion only to be woken by Cora's hand on her shoulder, her sister saying that it was morning and the men wished to resume travel. She could not eat anything and no one tried to make her. She bundled herself into the middle of the canoe, ahead of Uncas' father and behind Cora (she could not even bring herself to look at Nathaniel) and slumped on the bottom, only dimly aware of the motion, of the paddles displacing water.

She slept again, and the day passed with merciful speed, bringing them that evening to where the river met the road. In the gathering dusk, Nathaniel and Chingachgook brought the canoe ashore and spent time concealing its presence in the undergrowth, so that it would remain hidden to all but the most persistent searcher. Then, that suddenly, it was time to part.

Alice felt numb. Nathaniel stood apart, stiffly, but Cora must have found a moment to talk to him because at least there was no obvious dislike on his face, though she could only imagine what he was thinking. Chingachgook was shouldering supplies, including Alice's own pack.

Cora, with some hesitance, stepped in and took her sister's hands. "Alice, I will worry until I know you are safe in Albany. Will you send word when you arrive? And when you know—" She paused, then finished, "Come back to us, soon, if you can."

"Take care of yourself," Alice whispered. It was all she could manage. She could say nothing about her niece or nephew-to-be, though for all she knew Cora's time would come and go before she would see her again. This twisted at her heart but she could not think of it. There was too much else. She wanted to tell Nathaniel that she was sorry, that it was not her wish to hurt anyone, least of all his brother, but she could not find the words for that, either. He would not look at her, and she could not approach him, not after last night.

Chingachgook took Alice's arm with the gentleness she had become accustomed to receiving from his son. She followed him without being conscious of moving, onto the road that headed south. Cora and Nathaniel took up their own burdens and began to walk north. Cora turned, just as Alice did, but the two men kept going, guiding them in opposite directions.

Alice summoned up courage with a deep breath, and faced forwards again.

There was no other way to go.


	14. Chapter 14

Some days after the departure of Cora, Nathaniel, and Alice, Uncas discovered that he had a little shadow in young Ben. It had been tacitly understood that the wikwam they had been occupying would now be the home for the two of them as long as they were there; Ben seemed much more comfortable with the idea now that the women were gone. He had happily rearranged the furs and hides inside to make beds for himself and Uncas, side by side along the fire.

Uncas could not find it in him to resent Ben's now nearly constant presence. After all, time was what he had been needing to work with the boy and now they had plenty of time, though Uncas still had to spend a large portion of the day aiding Sanquen in the attendance of her mother, as he had promised Chingachgook. But it was now possible to re-institute language lessons, take Ben hunting, teach him how to become proficient with the bow, among other skills; and work on getting him to spend time with the other boys.

In this last Uncas had not yet been successful. Ben refused to countenance asking the Delaware lads to include him in their group, and Uncas had decided that he had better hold off on insisting that he did so. Ben was, in essence, still an outcast; but as long as he was at Uncas' side no one would treat him poorly, and the boy, having discovered this almost immediately, now depended upon it.

Uncas knew how important it was to bring him back from the fringe of camp society; he didn't want the boy to get too comfortable, but with Alice's absence he found he lacked some of the will to enforce sterner measures. So the long days of late summer slipped by.

They were having a meal by the communal pot on one such warm evening about a week after Chingachgook had left. Some of the men had been fishing, and Nachenum had brought up some of the choicer specimens to cook over the fire. Ben crouched, barefooted, his face slightly flushed from the heat of the flames, trying to angle the spitted flesh to ensure even cooking.

"You are burning it," Uncas observed. He was standing back from the fire, consuming a piece of roasted early pumpkin.

Ben withdrew the stick and examined it. "Woman job," he said dismissively.

"Women's work," Uncas corrected. "Don't be lazy in your speech. Remember what you read in my father's book from the cabin: speaking reflects thinking. Besides," he added, knowing Ben would expect a practical application, "there will not always be women around to do it for you."

"Don't remember," Ben said. He still had a strong argumentative streak that needed curing.

A couple of boys appeared to eat; they paused when they saw Ben, who tensed when he saw them. They looked alike enough to be brothers; the older one murmured something to the younger and Uncas was not surprised to hear that the word "_schiquineu_" was part of what he said.

Ben's white skin grew even whiter. Uncas dropped the pumpkin rind to the ground, where it was immediately devoured by a waiting dog, and moved towards the boys. The younger one ran off, but the elder, who had been taught to stand his ground, did not, though he looked intimidated.

"What's your name?"

"Tsela."

"You live with both your parents?"

The lad nodded.

"Then you are lucky. But think on this. If they died, Manto keep that from happening, you too would be _schiquineu._" Uncas waited for a few heartbeats and then continued, "You will be a man soon. A man without compassion is no man at all."

The boy bowed his head.

"I do not want to hear that word around the camp again," Uncas said. "Tell the other boys to watch their tongues."

"Yes, older brother." Tsela waited for Uncas's gesture of dismissal and once he got it, ran off to join his sibling.

Uncas returned to Ben's side. Ben was staring at him with mingled respect and a touch of bitterness.

"You must do that yourself next time," Uncas told him. "I will not always be here. Now come, if you're finished eating. We can have a writing lesson before it's time to sleep."

Ben followed him obligingly back to the wikwam, without a sigh or a roll of his eyes, which was a definite improvement over the previous occasion when Uncas had insisted he practice writing.

* * *

"_Nuhshum_." Chingachgook crouched by Alice, resting the back of his hand on her forehead for a moment. "Wake. You were dreaming."

Alice sat up, in a daze, aware of moonlight, aware that he had just referred to her as his daughter-in-law again. Wonderingly she brought her own hands up to her face and realized it was damp with tears.

He turned away then, and she was glad for that, as it allowed her a few moments to regain some composure. She had no sense of time passing, though based on the progress of the moon in the sky she must have been sleeping for some while already. Fumbling around for her water, she took a drink, and hastily wiped her face.

She had not yet caught Chingachgook sleeping, though she assumed he must at some point. He did look more tired than usual; the moonlight revealed every line of age and wear on his skin. She felt a momentary stab of guilt. Surely he would rather be back with his people attending to his sister than accompanying her to Albany. But they would not have let her go alone (and if she had to do so, who knew what harm may have befallen her) and she could not have borne to have it be Uncas. Strangely, however, the longer the Mohegan elder went without pressing her for an explanation or apology, the more she felt like giving one. Alice did not, after the fact, blame Nathaniel for his unexpected attack on her motives and intentions—she understood at least a little how it must look from his perspective; but there had been no possible way she could defend her decisions when he had challenged her.

It was their third night of travel. They had paralleled the road for most of the way, although Chingachgook insisted on keeping well out of sight of any other journeyers, also bypassing the few small settlements scattered along the road.

Alice remembered little of the days; nights were more difficult, as she could not keep her thoughts on what lay ahead of her, only recalling what she had left behind.

She longed to be in Albany already.

Rising now, she pulled the hood of her cloak up over her hair, feeling the need to be unremarkable, indistinct. "We may as well keep going," she said. "I shall not sleep any more tonight."

"It is the same to me," Chingachgook agreed. "But my son would not thank me if I hurried you."

"On the contrary, you have been very patient," Alice replied, hoping she could deflect him from further speculations on Uncas's wishes regarding her treatment.

"Of course, you must want to reach your relative as soon as possible."

Alice wondered if he meant this ironically, but his expression seemed ingenuous enough.

"I do," she said at last, sensing she was being drawn into a conversation somewhat against her own will, but unable to avoid it. "Until now, I did not know there was any of my father's family here on these shores."

"Family is important," Chingachgook accorded, and now she was sure there was something dry in his tone.

"I am sorry that you had to leave your sister," Alice said, the words tumbling out in rather more haste than seemed decorous. _He must think I have little concern for anyone's welfare but my own. I have not given him much reason to think so, but still..._

"Uncas will take the proper care of her." He looked at her directly now when he said this.

Alice tried her absolute utmost to stare back at him, but her gaze wavered and fell. "I..I am sure that he will," she murmured. "May we...may we go?"

Chingachgook rose from his crouched position. Though he was slightly shorter than either Uncas or Nathaniel, he made a formidable figure: still every bit a warrior despite his increasing years, there was something about him that did not ask for respect; it did not need to. His authority was unassuming and all-encompassing.

"My son has chosen you," he said, quietly, "but you do not choose him."

"It is...not that simple," Alice faltered, knowing she could not prevaricate against such a statement. "I need more time."

"A winter's worth of time was insufficient?"

"I need...a break."

_I need something...oh, why is it that I do not know myself what it is I need,_ she thought wildly, _and why must I be constantly asked when I have not had a chance to determine it for myself?_ How exhausting it was to be perpetually in a state of defense!

"Perhaps it is because you are English," Chingachgook said, startling her for a moment since it was as if he were commenting on her thoughts. "I did give Uncas warning to that effect."

Alice wondered if the continued conversation was the Mohegan man's way of punishing her. "It is not his fault."

"When you have found what you are looking for, you will come back."

Was that a question? She did not know. And had no answer to give.

He gestured then, that they would go, and Alice gladly moved out of the moonlight into the darkness of the sheltering trees, where all she had to think about was where to step, and keeping him in sight so she did not lose her way.

_Yesterday he told me that we could reach the city in two more nights...if I can just manage two more nights, then he will be gone, and my last reminder of Uncas with him... _

_

* * *

_"Ready to keep going?" Nathaniel bent down by Cora's side and gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. They had been resting for most of an hour. Cora still felt like there was nothing she wanted to do more than continue her nap, but there was yet so much traveling ahead of them that she hated to prolong it. She nodded. "If I may just have some water."

Nathaniel helped her to drink and then crouched back on his heels, regarding her. "I wonder if I shouldn't have let you talk me into taking you back."

"Why?" Cora smiled a little at his regretful tone. She was not having any second thoughts, despite her almost constant weariness. It was the right thing to do. Stretching out her legs, she said, "We have had perfect weather until now, and nothing untoward has happened, has it?"

"No," Nathaniel admitted, "but maybe we are pushing our luck, all the same." He rubbed a hand over his face and she realized, though he hadn't said as much, that he was probably just as tired as she was. After all, he was staying awake for most of the nights. It had been a luxury to be able to trade watches with Uncas and Nachenum on the way down. Now, it was completely up to him to ensure their safety.

"_You_ should be resting," she said, reaching out to touch his gritty jaw. "When I take a break you are always roaming about looking for something for me to eat."

"You are always hungry," Nathaniel replied with a grin.

It was true. Her nausea had peaked at the camp, and in the last week had subsided, leaving her feeling almost constantly ravenous, particularly for fresh foods which were difficult to come by. A large part of her thoughts were occupied by musings of food and what she would experiment with making once they were back at the cabin. It did not help to assuage her cravings, of course; but it was better than thinking about nothing.

Or worrying about what Alice was doing. Cora gazed past Nathaniel's shoulder, distracted. Should they not have insisted that Alice accompany them back, if she were so determined not to stay with Uncas? Had she failed in her duty as an older sister? Her father would have wanted them to be together. But, she reminded herself, it was too late to worry about that; they had already parted ways once, and now it was as if their situations were reversed; she was going to the wilderness while Alice was taking her turn in the city.

If that were all it was. That _had_ to be all it was. After a few months Alice would surely come to her senses and realize that she did not belong in Albany any more than Cora and Nathaniel did.

She became aware that Nathaniel's grave stare, focused on her face, meant he knew what direction her thoughts were taking now. She often saw a similar look on his face and knew at these times he was thinking of his brother. She smiled again, a little sadly this time.

"Alice is going to be fine," he said, after a moment. "Father will see to that."

Cora was touched that he was trying to reassure her, since she suspected he still privately condemned her sister. "I know that, but once he leaves her in the city, anything could happen. After all—it has been a year since that letter was written. Our father's cousin could have died, or moved away, or..."

"Or any number of things could go wrong. I know."

"She is not a child, but still..." Cora sighed. "She may be a little—spoiled, having been born second in our family. I think she feels as if she is missing something...as though she cannot settle down without knowing whether there is something better for her." Seeing Nathaniel's frown she added, "No, I do not mean that, exactly. That is, I do not think that anyone would treat her better than Uncas does, but..." She hesitated, confused.

"You mean she might be happier with an uncomplicated British gentleman," Nathaniel said with a twist of his lip.

Cora looked at him wryly. "That is not who _I_ chose, why should she? No...but Alice, in her own way, is more conventional than I, and I think she has expectations which she may only now be realizing cannot be fulfilled. I may be wrong, Nathaniel. I am only speculating."

"Well," Nathaniel said, rising, his gaze having hardened, "I only wish _my_ brother didn't have to suffer for _her _expectations."

"So do I," Cora murmured. "You were right. It is not fair to him." She reached out for his hand to help her up, and brushed off her dress as she did so. "Shall we move on?"

* * *

Three days before the coming of the harvest moon, Chingachgook's sister died.

Uncas had not been present at her passing, which was a source of some guilt to him. He had returned from an afternoon's hunt with Ben to find Sanquen, solemn-faced, waiting with the news. Tiskemanis grieved long and loudly for her mother, though she had been busy with her two babies and had done little, to Uncas' way of thinking, towards helping; it had been his younger cousin who had kept long hours by the ill woman's bedside, as he himself had.

It was Sanquen, too, who threw herself into the ritual preparations that the deceased required, with a fervor that was commendable, although Uncas was concerned that the girl was taking too much upon her shoulders. He never saw her in moments of leisure now; and when he came upon her outside the wikwam tanning a hide with as much fierceness as any warrior, he crouched down beside her and took the tool out of her hands. "Quen. Stop."

Sanquen rocked back on her heels and rubbed sweat out of her eyes with a brown forearm. "I need to do something."

"I know, but not all the time. This can wait."

She looked at him, her dark eyes heavy with sadness. "My mother is gone."

"I know," he said again, reaching encouragingly for her shoulder. "I should have been here."

Sanquen shook her head. "You barely left her at all...it just happened to be me."

"I regret the loss of my aunt," Uncas said. He felt sudden pity for the girl. She would have to stay with Tiskemanis and Machque now, and he suspected Tiskemanis would depend on her rather more than usual for childminding. It was, of course, a younger sister's responsibility to help out, until the girl was old enough to find her own husband and start a family; still, it seemed to Uncas that she had not had much of a childhood. If he ever had a daughter, he would want the child to know plenty of freedom...

He repressed this thought with a wince.

Neither Sanquen nor Nachenum had brought up the topic of Alice since the day the English girl had gone. Looking down at the hide as she spoke, the girl said, "You have lost something yourself."

"Don't remind me, cousin." He tried to speak lightly but it did not come out quite that way.

The sorrow that Sanquen felt over her mother's death melted into something richer, blent with empathy, projecting clearly as she looked at him. "Is it awful?"

A sudden gust of wind sent early leaves scattering around their legs, reminding them both that the season was changing; that the fine weather would soon be over; that fall, and winter, were on their way. "Yes," Uncas admitted.

"I expect it is worse than death," Sanquen said softly. "At least death is final. _Nusiw__ôhtum,__ nunt__ô__yuquksak_." _[__I am so sorry, older brother.]_

He could not meet her eyes. All around them, the sounds of life continued; the singing of the wind, the rushing of the distant river; the thrum of arrows leaving bows as boys practiced; a mother calling sharply to her child; rough canine barking. And he was alive, and still part of it; but she was right. It did feel worse than death to be part of it now.

_No matter where you go, I will find you._

But if she did not want to be found?


	15. Chapter 15

To eyes which had become accustomed to thinking of a house as a tiny wikwam or a small cabin, the Gordon residence on Chestnut Street seemed enormous. It was a grey building with steeply pitched roofs, set on a spacious property full of trees and far back enough from the road to give it the appearance of privacy. A fine drizzle was coming down in the early evening over the city of Albany as Alice and Chingachgook stood, some distance away on the street, looking at the house to which they had been directed.

Alice pulled her cloak a little more tightly around her. The bottom half of her dress was drenched, not just from the wet but also from walking through the muddy streets of the city. She had almost forgotten how filthy a settlement with so many humans living in it could be.

She could have wished to appear before her relative in a more respectable light; stepping down from a carriage in a spotless new gown, perhaps, accompanied by a bewigged, impeccable footman; but here she was in dirty and sodden rags with an equally dirty Indian man as her guide. Not that she was ashamed of Chingachgook, exactly; there was something even in his currently rather barbaric appearance that compelled respect; but she couldn't imagine that anyone not knowing him would instantly realize he was a well-read gentleman.

Alice hesitated, unsure how to proceed. Uncas' father must have seen her doubt because he made the decision for her. "I will wait here; if all seems well, go in. Tomorrow night by dusk, I will be at our last stopping place along the road, if you should change your mind, or find anything amiss."

"Thank you," Alice said. It seemed grossly inadequate. But she didn't know what else to offer. She had nothing to give him and it would have been silly and insulting even if she had. She did not feel able to embrace him, nor could she guess at his reaction were she to do so. She settled for putting a tentative hand on his forearm, hoping that he could somehow realize that she was genuinely grateful and wished there to be no ill-will between them.

Chingachgook seemed to understand the gesture. Solemnly he gazed at her for a few moments and then eased away, encouraging her to go. She turned and stepped into the street, holding her breath both because she was nervous and because the roads ran with brown muck she suspected was not merely honest dirt. Rain trickled down the back of her neck; her hood had fallen, but she didn't stop to put it back up.

Alice darted as quickly as possible across the street, then down the narrow drive past a stand of trees onto the Gordon property. Panting a little at the sudden expenditure of energy, she reached the steps and walked up them. There was a large brass knocker on the door. She caught the slippery brass between her fingers and banged it against the solid wood. And waited. She glanced back at Chingachgook, barely visible in the deepening shadows across the road. She rapped again. Her heart pounded harder as she heard someone approaching.

It was a maid who answered, capped and prettily aproned, with big eyes that reminded Alice momentarily of Sanquen. Her mouth made a surprised O as she took in the sight of Alice.

"I..I am here to see Mary-Elizabeth Gordon," Alice said, with as much firmness as she could muster, reminding herself that she was both this girl's senior and superior—though it was hard to feel so, appearing as she did. At that same instant she glanced down at her feet and realized she was still wearing moccasins. Moccasins! Of course she was; but it had not occurred to her until just now. The maid, who herself was wearing very smart, immaculately polished black-buckled shoes, followed her eyes downward. Alice could feel heat dusting her cheeks. "As soon as possible, if you please, I have traveled very far to come here. Tell her it is Miss Alice Munro."

"Yes, miss." After a moment the maid realized she was staring and broke her gaze. She hesitated for an instant and then, glancing beyond her at the rain, pulled the heavy door a little further open. "Step into the foyer, if you will, miss."

Alice looked behind her one more time; though Chingachgook had given her until tomorrow night, she still felt as though this was the inevitable moment, that this was the end of it. She bit her lip, gathered up her filthy skirts, and stepped within the house, letting the door close after her.

She did not have a long wait, though it felt like an eternity, where she tried not to think about the muddy pool she was creating on the rich red carpet, as her sodden cloak slowly added water to the mud on her (moccasined) feet. She tried not to think about the growling of her stomach, which had long since stopped being satisfied with copious amounts of water and the occasional piece of _pumihkan._

Mary-Elizabeth Gordon came down the hall into the foyer herself to meet her. Alice was instantly, miserably aware of just how poor she looked compared to this faultlessly dressed, smiling woman. Well into middle-age, yet trim and delicate, she seemed to Alice like something out of a portrait. Everything on her person was perfectly draped and charming, and yet she did not seem fussy, but welcoming.

"Alice! Are you come alone? You are completely sodden, my dear, surely you did not walk..." Mrs. Gordon's words trailed off when she saw how close Alice was to tears. "Joan! Take her upstairs to the first guest room and help her out of her things. We can talk later," she said, smiling, to Alice, "once you are clean and dry. At once, Joan!"

The maid who had answered the door came scurrying out of nowhere to do her mistress' bidding. Alice felt herself led down another, shorter hallway and up a set of dimly lit stairs. Joan's grip was surprisingly strong. She was ushered into a room and thereafter a smaller bath room. The maid disappeared and brought her, in quick sequence, a change of clothing, some towels, and, a little later, some hot water.

Alice, feeling she had no pride left, availed herself of these amenities, and though she was just as tired and hungry and emotionally wrought half an hour later, she was, at least, clean, and in a plain but comfortable dress. Joan had left her to wash and dress in privacy, for which she was grateful.

Standing in front of the mirror now, she began without thinking to braid her damp hair; it was the style in which she was accustomed to keeping it now, it having been so long since she had worn a cap.

Alice stared at herself, wondering when she had gotten so pale. She pinched her cheeks. "You are here," she said aloud. Suddenly she realized she had no idea what she was going to tell Mrs. Gordon of her situation. Certainly not all of it could be revealed, no matter how sympathetic a person she might be. Some of the facts, perhaps; but—

Joan knocked on the door, and then entered. "Mrs. Gordon will have tea with you in the drawing room, if you are ready, Miss Alice."

Though she did not feel ready, Alice turned and followed Joan down to the drawing room.

The room was tastefully appointed and very welcoming; there were lush velvet chairs grouped about a table which had a tray and tea service on it, and a comfortably glowing fire in the fireplace which, for some odd reason, gave Alice a strange pang of homesickness.

Mary-Elizabeth was sitting on one of the chairs and she stood up as Alice, rather diffidently, came in. "You look much better," she approved, as Joan curtsied and backed out, closing the drawing room doors together as she did. "Come to me, my dear. Oh, it is good to see my cousin's daughter. I was apprised of your father's death at the fort, but when I never heard from you or your sister, I didn't know what to think.

"Are you hungry? You look hungry. Have some tea." She poured it herself, all the while smilingly carrying on a conversation. "But why is Cora not with you? How is it you have come alone? There was no carriage in the street, Joan told me, nor did she see any chaperone with you. How long do you mean to stay?"

Alice hesitated, though feeling even if she didn't say anything, the woman might well continue to talk. But Mrs. Gordon was waiting now, with a politely inquisitive look on her face.

"I...It is difficult to explain," she began slowly. _Where do I even begin? I can scarcely tell her that we have been living in wikwams, and sleeping in the forest_. "Last summer, we were waylaid by...by savages before we reached our father's company. Some...some frontiermen helped us to safety. We stayed in the settlements over the winter," she said, vaguely, hoping that Mrs. Gordon would not be interested in this point, among others. "It was hard, but we had nowhere else to go. Cora came back here to the city for our things. We meant to stay up there...to try to start a new life. Cora married one of the men, but—" she swallowed, not sure what kind of story she was telling any more. "Then we received your letter, and I began to feel out of place; I thought I could stay with you for a while."

"But of course you may." The older woman leaned forward and patted her knee confidentially. "Not only may, but must. I am so glad that you decided to, though I would have liked to have both of you here. I had given up hope that my letter had even reached you: I thought it must have just fallen into the wrong hands."

"To be honest, Mrs. Gordon—"

"You must call me Aunt Mary," she interrupted. "We are kin, after all."

Alice smiled faintly. "To be honest, Aunt Mary, I am utterly dependent on your hospitality," she said, looking at her fingers. "I have no means of my own, and nowhere else to turn. I feel badly to come as I did, with no warning, but I...became desperate."

"How old are you, child?"

"I will turn eighteen this winter."

"So young still," Mary-Elizabeth murmured. "But then I was only a year older when I came over here to live. Alice, sweet girl, you are so pretty, yet there is so much trouble in your eyes. Please do not worry about a single thing. I insist that you stay with me for as long as you can imagine. I want to give the best possible attention to you and your unfortunate situation until you look as carefree as a girl your age ought."

Alice felt the tears spring to the surface again, though she did not want them to; she did not want to feel any more manipulative of this kind woman than she already did. But _this_ was what she wanted...consideration...understanding...a cup of tea pressed into her hand and refilled without asking...a velvety sofa to sit on...the warm fire crackling in the background.

Mary-Elizabeth's own eyes seemed to grow a little misty, then, too. And then she brought the tray of dainty foods over and insisted that Alice have some of everything...while urging her not to think any more on her situation just now, they would talk of it again, when she was more rested. Tonight they would only chatter a little and catch up, and eat, and then go to bed, and in the mornings to come they would talk, for there would be many more mornings in which to do so. And Alice thought that this was a wonderful plan.

* * *

On a cool afternoon, when the maples were halfway turning gold and red, Chingachgook returned to the Delaware camp.

Uncas met him a mile away, having been apprised of his father's imminent arrival by some scouts. It struck him how tired the older man looked, walking as he was among the fallen leaves, the gray strands in his hair suddenly more prominent, his step slower, heavier.

"_Nohsh_." He moved out of the undergrowth and gave him the warrior's embrace, forearms clasped, not bothering to wait for the traditional father-son acknowledgment. "I am sorry that I must welcome you with bad news."

Chingachgook grunted. "I went away knowing it might be so."

_He has already grieved for her_, Uncas realized. _Perhaps as soon as he knew she was ill...before we even got here._

Side by side they continued to walk, back towards the camp. Uncas had not believed that he wanted to hear anything said about Alice but suddenly he realized the opposite was true; he was desperately hungry for whatever his father might be able to tell him about her. But he did not want to badger a tired warrior back from a long journey like a child impatient for a new toy; so he remained silent. Chingachgook would eventually tell him, if there were anything to tell. And if not, he would have to endure that, too.

"How is the lad faring?" Chingachgook asked, after some time.

"Well enough, though he still won't have much to do with the others." Uncas reached over and swung his father's pack onto his own shoulders; it looked as if it had become heavy. Chingachgook did not object. The journey must have indeed been wearisome.

"Do you have it in mind to go back to the cabin for the winter, Father?"

"I think not," the older Mohegan answered. "Fall is already here, and I grow tired of travel. You and the boy must move into your aunt's wikwam with me for as long as you remain in the camp. My nieces will need family around them now."

"I will stay for the winter, too, then."

Chingachgook paused, just as they were nearing the outskirts of camp. "You do not leave for the city?"

Uncas wondered if he had heard this correctly. He stared at his father, trying to read the face he knew so well. "I will not go where I am not wanted."

Chingachgook said: "I believe that she does want you, though she would not admit so."

Uncas wanted to let his self-control slip and shout that that was not good enough; it was not nearly good enough for Alice to feel something for him and not express it. But now that the subject of her had been brought up, he had to know more. "You saw her safely taken in?"

"I did, and stayed a second night near the city to be sure."

"Then there is no reason for me to go to her."

"You can wait a long time for a woman to make up her mind, my son," Chingachgook warned.

"I am good at waiting," Uncas said, with a touch of bitterness.


	16. Chapter 16

The first morning she awoke in the four-poster bed, with its fluffy pillows and lace-embroidered eiderdown that smelled of lavender, Alice simply lay motionless for a long time, wriggling her toes underneath the blankets. There were unfamiliar noises; outside the window she could hear the clop of horse hooves in the distant street, and carriage wheels squeaking; someone in the hallway rustled by.

Alice squirmed upwards on the pillow and looked around her. The room was furnished in rich oak. Heavy velvet drapes were parted at the window, allowing in only a little morning light; there was already a new day dress laid carefully across the upholstered chair, and adorable shoes beneath it. Alice wondered where her moccasins had gotten to. _Fool_, an inner voice sneered, _it is not as if you will need them now._

She pushed back the blankets and slipped out of bed. The wooden floor was perfectly smooth and swept under her bare feet. Quickly, she dressed in the new things, and just as she was finishing up with the buttons, Joan knocked and came in. "Ah, miss, you are up. I wasn't to disturb you, the missus said you should sleep as late as you had a mind to."

"Thank you," Alice said, feeling the awkwardness of yesterday, remembering what a state she had been in; but today neither Joan's tone nor face indicated she thought Alice more unusual than any other guest of her mistress. She was grateful for that. "What...what time is it?"

"It's almost noon, miss, and if you would care to come to lunch in the dining room, I'll show you the way."

If lunch were to be anything like the tea of the night before, Alice was desirous of participating, and she followed Joan to the dining room forthwith.

"Did you sleep well?" Aunt Mary, as Alice was making a concerted effort to start thinking of her, was already there. "Do join me. I eat too many meals alone. Food always tastes better when there is company, don't you think?"

"Yes," Alice murmured, sliding into a chair. She had to try not to stare at the range of delicacies laid out for a simple lunch. Steaming scones, with butter melting down their sides. Jewel-coloured jelly. A hot pudding laden with cinnamon...She swallowed. "It all...smells...so good."

Mary-Elizabeth laughed in genuine delight, and poured Alice a cup full of amber-colored tea, pushing over the sugar and cream pots as she did so. "Have as much as you like. And after lunch, if you feel like it, we could go out in the carriage? If you'd rather stay in, that would be fine, of course. It will be a little while before I learn how you like to amuse yourself."

_Amuse myself_, Alice thought. _In between burning soup over a cross fire twice a day...hauling water from the stream to drink and wash with...mending torn clothing with a bone needle...and travelling across the country for months at a time...I scarcely know, myself, any more_.

She sipped at the clear, sweet tea.

"I..I would like to go out," she said, slowly, after a few moments, aware of the other woman's questioning expression. In truth, she would have been just as content to stay indoors, perhaps explore the house, look for a library, but she did not want Mrs. Gordon to think she was a complete recluse, or socially backwards. She knew that girls of her age were too often made to stay indoors and would leap at the chance to see the shops or to be seen doing so. And she did want to discover the enjoyment of such things again, herself...that was why she had come, after all...but...perhaps...not just yet.

"Lovely," Mary-Elizabeth was saying, as she spread jelly on a scone. "I hope you will let me buy a few things for you. You are not to feel beholden to me, as they are your rightful inheritance. Your father, God rest his soul, would have wanted you to have them."

Alice was distracted by how the jelly was melting into the perfectly baked triangles; but when the other woman paused, she looked up, murmuring, "Oh...thank you."

"I am often away in the evenings; there is mission work in which I am involved, and so you must tell me what you would like to do when I am not here. We can still spend mornings and afternoons together."

Why was she finding it so hard to think of something? "I like to read," Alice ventured finally, wondering if the reference to mission work meant her relative was not likely to have any books in the house that were not strictly of a self-improving nature, "and I do some embroidery, when I have the chance; and play the clavichord, though it has been a long time."

"My husband was a great reader. Joan will show you his library whenever you wish. We do not have a clavichord, since I myself do not play; but my good friend Abigail Wesley has one. We will have to call on her when you are up to it. She is just down the street."

Alice nodded, although she couldn't imagine wanting to play in front of anyone until she was sure her fingers remembered how. But she knew Mary-Elizabeth was just looking for ways to distract her, to keep her thoughts from what was in her past, and for this kindness by itself she was thankful.

They finished up tea, and then Joan came, offering to do Alice's hair for her, in such a sweet manner that Alice could hardly take offense, but only continue to feel grateful; and it was odd indeed, but good, to see herself in the little mirror once Joan was done, looking like the girl she had been in England; even if she were far more tanned, and tired-eyed.

And then they spent a surprisingly enjoyable afternoon, Alice and Mary-Elizabeth, taking in the sights of the city, which were far more appealing from the height and comfort of a carriage drawn by two lovely brown horses, with the footman of yesterday's dreams to attend them. Mary-Elizabeth stopped by a number of shops and despite Alice's reticence made many purchases for her new ward. They drove by the harbor with all its many ships, and Alice stared out the carriage windows, wondering that she could have forgotten what a city was like, what a wealth of humanity and color and noise and vivacity it represented. To be certain, she was still quite fatigued, and her enjoyment of the day was considerably lessened on their way home when she caught sight of a pair of young Indian men who turned to look at their carriage when it passed them; something about the dark, solemn stare of the one closest her (though he did not otherwise really bear much resemblance and almost certainly belonged to a different nation) reminded her heartbreakingly of Uncas. Despite that, the outing had been a pleasant enough way to pass the hours after lunch; still, she was grateful when they stopped at the house on Chestnut Street and Aunt Mary, seeing her wan expression, encouraged her to rest in her room for a while before dinner.

Alice went to bed early, too, as soon as dinner was done with, and once her packages from the day had been unwrapped and arranged neatly in the armoire. She still felt unaccountably tired, and longed for the refuge of sleep, for the previous night's rest had been dreamless and peaceful, due no doubt to the comfort of the bed and the silence of the house. That night, too, she slept long and well, waking in the morning past the breakfast hour.

The second day, she told Aunt Mary she would prefer to remain within, only stepping outside for a brief ramble in the secluded park that circled around the back of the residence. She stayed away from the street, since passersby and carriages were visible beyond the trees at the front. The weather was damp and a little chilly, and she came in by late afternoon, having gotten enough fresh air to satisfy her for the time being.

Once Mrs. Gordon had departed for the evening, the big residence was oddly quiet, disturbed only by the occasional pattering of the maid's feet as she went up and down the hallway about her various duties outside Alice's guest room. Alice napped for a while, but later rose, restless, and went to explore the rest of the house. She discovered the library that her kinswoman had referenced, and was pleased to find it an inviting place; a smallish chamber, it was nonetheless well-stocked with books of all kinds—even novels!—several comfortable armchairs, and a cozy reading nook at the base of a tall window which looked out towards the trees in the park where she had been roaming.

The room lacked a fireplace and was cool, but Alice procured a quilt from her room and settled down with it, and a novel that looked diverting, in the nook under the window. There she spent the evening, until the light from outside began to fade and the shadows encroached.

Alice closed the book, about halfway along. Her mind had begun to wander anyway. She stared out the window at the waving trees. It was odd to have so much idle time. She was aware of a vague dissatisfaction, a feeling that she lacked something. A sense of purpose, perhaps.

_Am I so fickle, so flighty to have grown bored already?_

She realized that she did not want to be alone.

Leaving the library and going to the kitchen, where there was a cook and a manservant in addition to Joan, she thought perhaps to spend some time with them, but they were clearly discomfited by this and Alice felt a similarity in their reaction to what the Delaware women's had been when she had tried to help at the camp. Joan was friendly, but her firm attitude conveyed that unless Alice needed something specific, there was no reason for her to be below.

Having been summarily dismissed, Alice went to the drawing room instead. At least here there was a warm fire; she could put her feet up on the ottoman, and relax into the depths of the plush chair; but it was not quite as enjoyable, when she had no one to sip tea with.

_I wonder if Cora and Nathaniel have made it back to the cabin yet. They should have, by now. I hope the journey was uneventful. I wish they were closer. How am I ever going to make it back to them? Maybe I won't. Maybe I will stay here in the city. Though what would I do? I cannot remain with Aunt Mary indefinitely. I would feel too much of a burden, no matter what she says, though she does seem to like having me here._

_I wonder—_

_No, I do _not _wonder what he is doing right now_.

"I wonder if he misses me," she whispered to the fire. Its flames seemed to crackle in encouraging response.

There was no one else to talk to, after all.

She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, suddenly feeling as if she had, somehow, been heard; but there was no other presence in the room, and the drawing room doors had been pulled firmly closed after her.

* * *

A few more days passed in a desultory manner. Alice went to bed early, slept late, and had lunches with her benefactress over the noon hour, during which they talked. Mrs. Gordon was curious for more details of her and Cora's past year, but Alice shied away from giving too much information, speaking vaguely of certain circumstances, and glossing over anything relating to their acquaintances with the Mohegan or Delaware people. Mary-Elizabeth was never pushy at these times, and always gently changed the course of the conversation if she sensed Alice's unease; and if it was clear she realized that Alice was not willing to be entirely frank with her, at least she did not seem to resent her young charge's disingenuousness. They grew closer, at these times, despite the lack of complete candor between them. Alice, having grown up without a mother's presence and influence, was becoming aware of how pleasant it could be to have a sympathetic older woman as a companion and confidante, even if she were limited in her revelations.

By the beginning of the second week in Albany, Alice had grown tired of her routine and acceded to Mary-Elizabeth's request that she join her for afternoon tea at her friend's house. She put on one of her new dresses she had not yet had a chance to wear (it seemed silly, when there were so few to see her.) A pale green lawn, the dress had short sleeves and a neckline that was cut differently than she remembered the fashion being, but perhaps fashion had changed in the past year. With her hair properly done, as it had been every day by Joan so far, Alice felt ready for the outing.

Aunt Mary was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. "You look lovely, dear. And I just yesterday found something in my jewelry box for you that is the perfect accompaniment."

As Alice descended the steps, the other woman held out a delicate bracelet of polished jade stones for her perusal.

"So pretty," Alice said. She held out her left arm. Mary-Elizabeth leaned forward to put it around her wrist, but then hesitated. For a moment Alice didn't know what was wrong, but as she followed the other's eyes to her arm she realized that she still wore Uncas's gold bracelet, the one that coiled like a snake and fitted to her skin, almost half the length of her forearm. She had long since stopped noticing the adornment; it felt like an extension of her.

For a second they both hesitated, and then Alice pulled back that arm and put out her other. _I am not taking that off. I don't care. I will not talk about it...and I will not take it off._ She felt ready to voice her defiance if she had to, but Mary-Elizabeth merely gave a bright smile and began to fasten the new trinket around her wrist, saying, "You don't mind walking, do you? It's not far."

Alice didn't think she would have found the trip strenuous if it had been twice the distance, but she just murmured that she would be glad of the exercise.

They made their way down Chestnut Street to the Wesley residence, which was larger and more opulent than the Gordon house, although on a smaller property. A maid showed them into a massive foyer that glistened with natural light from the ceiling windows arching overhead.

The mistress of the house came to meet them, enrobed in a gown so elaborate that it almost made Alice's eyes ache; but she had a kind welcome for Alice and an avid one for her friend, with whom she was obviously close.

"Alice, while I catch up with Abigail, you may go ahead and try out the clavichord, before we have tea," Mrs. Gordon urged. "It's just over there, in the sitting room. Don't be shy, we won't listen."

Alice gave a perfunctory curtsey—she felt she had almost forgotten how—to excuse herself, and sidled away.

The simplicity of the sitting room was some relief after the shining tiled floors and polished wood of the entryway. Under a window which looked out over the street, a clavichord rested. Alice stopped by it for a moment, running her fingers over the smooth mahogany of the instrument as she gazed down through the casements at the figures below.

After a short while she sat down on the stool, giving it an idle twirl, in memory of the child she had been when she had taken lessons. How many lifetimes away that seemed! More than time, it was worlds away.

How little had she known then of what her life would become.

She flexed her fingers over the keys, then played a few notes. The sound was tinny, just as she remembered. After a year of exposure to the American sun, her hands looked brown against the white background of the keys. She turned her palms up and examined the lines in them, staring at the whorls and patterns.

A male voice startled her. "Hello."

She jumped, and almost slid off the small stool. Turning, she saw a young man in the doorway. He was slim, fair-skinned, no taller than she was, impeccably dressed in a formal waistcoat and breeches, his hair neatly tied back.

"Good afternoon," she murmured, reserved.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. Mrs. Mary-Elizabeth usually comes alone. I wanted to see her visitor. My name is Esmond Wesley."

His face was ingenuous, and after a moment she relaxed a little. "I am Alice, a..a distant relative of Mrs. Gordon's."

"Are you new to Albany?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been in the city?"

"Not very long," Alice dissembled.

He came into the room and gestured at the clavichord. "Will you play?"

"No." Alice rose from the stool, brushing the fine lawn of her dress back into order. "Thank you. I am greatly out of practice. Though I see there is music here—someone must?"

"I do," Esmond said, forehead wrinkling. Now that he was standing closer she thought he must be close to her own age; certainly he was not very far out of boyhood. She wondered if he had been ill; he had a delicate air about him, and Alice, having gotten used to the masculine vitality of Uncas, Nathaniel and Nachenum, found it hard to know how to sort him out. Was he to be addressed as her equal?

After a moment she suggested, "Perhaps you will play, then?" She wanted her own chance to observe him unawares, since he had already gotten his.

"If you like," he said, but indifferently, not in a flirtatious manner, which was fortunate, because she didn't think she could have endured that. He took her place on the stool and she moved a modest distance away. Esmond rearranged some of the sheets on the stand above the clavichord, concentrated briefly, and then launched into his selection.

He played proficiently, she thought, at least from what she remembered of what good playing sounded like. _Certainly he plays better than you now can, so you ought not to judge,_ she corrected herself. _He has long fingers, and his hands are so white—like mine used to be_. _Can a man have hands that look so soft and white? He couldn't build a cabin with those hands._ Alice firmly re-directed her thoughts, as she was more and more often having to do, just as she had to adjust the path of her conversations with Mary-Elizabeth.

Esmond suddenly struck a few wrong notes in a row and paused, looking over at her. "Sorry," he said, and then added frankly, "I nearly always make a mistake there."

Alice smiled, but couldn't stop herself from asking, "Then why did you choose that piece?"

"My pianomaster thinks I need to push myself to do more than just the ones I excel at." Esmond shrugged.

"He is probably right," Alice said.

The maid who had shown them in appeared at this juncture, advising them that it was time for tea, if they would come to the drawing room. Alice was glad; she felt ready for some sustenance. She expected Esmond would pick at his food, even on this brief acquaintance, and was secretly amused to see that he did. The drawing room was warm and well lit, like the rest of the house. Mary-Elizabeth and Esmond's mother sat together on a chaise longue, while Alice and Esmond had a chair each to themselves, around a huge oak table upon which the tea was laid out.

The maid poured the tea and served them. It was more formal than the cozy setting Alice had grown used to and she sank back into her chair, forgetting the need to sit upright, straight-backed. After going for a year without stays it was hard to remember to maintain her posture. Mrs. Gordon widened her eyes remonstratively at Alice, but with a twinkle. Alice quickly straightened, and sipped at her drink, thinking there was something to be said for frontier informality, after all.

"You two have gotten acquainted?" Mrs. Wesley asked of Alice, indicating her son. "Esmond has taken some time away from his studies. He is not well, unfortunately."

"Aren't you?" Alice looked across at the young man, who muttered, "Mother," in slight embarrassment. To Alice, he said, "The American climate does not agree with me, that is all."

"Have you been in England until now?"

"Yes, for my education; and although I was born here, I feel England is my home."

"That is strange," Alice said aloud, then realizing she had only meant to think it.

"Why?" Esmond said, curiously.

"I don't know." Alice took a hasty sip of her tea. She sensed the scrutiny of the two older women upon them both and was grateful when the maid brought round a serving of tiny iced cakes. Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Wesley then continued to chat.

The afternoon wore on so until it was time to make their way home. Alice walked back with Mary-Elizabeth in the gathering shadows, conscious of huge leaves from the tall maples spilling around her feet, conscious that the season was changing around her.

They had not gotten very far from the Wesley residence when Mary-Elizabeth remarked, "You made a lovely impression on my friend, you know."

"Really?" Alice murmured. She felt she had said very little of interest over the afternoon and was sure their hosts had thought her somewhat gauche.

"I should perhaps warn you that Abigail is very keen to make a match for her son."

"Isn't he awfully young?" Alice said distantly.

Mary-Elizabeth gave a merry laugh. "He is older than you, dearest girl, by at least a year, if I recall rightly? Was that your only impression of him? Not that I myself wish to play matchmaker, but as I am sure you noticed, my friend and her husband are very well off. Certainly young Esmond's bride would never want for anything material."

A twist of discomfort awoke in Alice; was her kinswoman suggesting that she avail herself of whatever opportunities came her way, given her self-described state of penury? Was her relative eager to foist her burden upon someone else? Surely not...but an uncomfortable feeling lodged itself in her breast nonetheless.

"Alice?" Mary-Elizabeth had stopped, and touched her arm, halting her. "Of course I would not recommend you as a candidate for Abigail's son if I thought that there might be another young man, somewhere, upon whom you have set your affections?"

Alice felt panic beat, as a trapped bird, in tandem with her heart. "Why do you say such a thing?" she asked slowly.

"Well, I did not suggest the possibility to Abigail, you may set your mind at ease about that. But I could not help privately speculating that it might be so? There is something about your eyes; I noticed it the very first day—and today, when I made you the gift of the bracelet, I thought you might tear me apart if I dared to suggest you take the other one off." Mary-Elizabeth's tone was light, almost playful; but her gaze was serious, questioning.

Alice knew she could not yet give answers to those questions; but her relative demanded some honesty, more, at least, than she had been given to this point. Yet how to frame her reply so that it could not be mistaken for mere girlish demurral?

"Esmond is a pleasant enough person, based on today's acquaintance," she said at last. "As you and Mrs. Wesley are so close, I have no objection if we were to meet again; but Aunt Mary, you must know that a match between him and myself would be utterly impossible." She closed her eyes for just a second, firmly refusing to think _why_.

Mary-Elizabeth gave a delicate shrug of her shoulders. "That is simple enough," she said, in the same, light tone. "I appreciate your directness in saying so, at least. Though I think I will not relay such finality to my friend? She might not understand your reasons."

_Or lack thereof_, Alice thought. She was tempted to say that Mrs. Gordon might tell Mrs. Wesley whatever she wanted; that it could make no possible difference what Abigail thought of her indigent relative, but then, perhaps the less that was said, the better.

So they finished the remainder of the walk in silence, not quite as comfortable as it usually was between them, at least on Alice's part; and when in the house Joan took their wraps and ushered them into the hall, closing the door against the darkness behind them, she was glad to beg fatigue and escape to her room, there to ensconce herself until morning.


	17. Chapter 17

Though Machque's footfalls were quiet against the fallen leaves, muted as they were by an earlier rainshower, Uncas was aware he was being approached. It had not been long since he had left the company of the others; dim laughter and the convivial sounds of the camp were carried on the air down to the riverbank where he now crouched.

Machque hunkered down a short distance alongside him by the river bank, saying nothing at first. There was a benevolent three-quarter moon highlighting his profile when Uncas glanced sideways at him.

"You should come back to the fire and celebrate with Achtu and Ehes." Machque spoke matter-of-factly. Twin boys had recently been born to the couple he referenced and the camp was conducting an impromptu celebration of their healthy, though early, arrival.

Uncas nodded, mostly acknowledging the responsibility, but not really in acquiescence. "I was there earlier."

"I know. I saw you. You didn't look happy."

"So I left."

Machque grunted in amusement. "I don't think they noticed that. Were you worried about spoiling everyone else's fun?"

Uncas shrugged. "Maybe."

"_Nexisemes_. I don't think anyone would blame you for not being there if you have a better reason than just wanting to be alone. Do you?"

Uncas shook his head.

Machque picked up a river pebble and sent it skipping into the waters, disturbing the dappling of the moon pattern, but the rock must have been too round for it almost instantly sank. "Where's the boy?"

"Already sleeping. He was out early hunting with me this morning."

"Get anything?"

Uncas shot him a look. His cousin knew perfectly well they'd come back empty-handed.

"You've been going out a lot," Machque observed.

"Every day," Uncas said, wearily.

"And not bringing home any meat."

"There is plenty of fish. Nobody is hungry."

"Or maybe Nachenum was right when he told me you weren't trying anymore."

Uncas locked his jaw, and replied with what he considered admirable restraint, "If I did not want to hunt, I would not hunt."

"But then you wouldn't have anything to do but sit around and mend moccasins all day."

"Moccasins need to be mended."

"Yes," Machque agreed, "but not by us. Come, brother, are you not still _le cerf agile_? Do you want to be known instead as the dim buffalo? Leave the boy at home tomorrow and we will go. I will see your best attempt." He rose and approached Uncas, leaning over to clap him on the back.

"To what end?" Uncas said reluctantly. He was most used to hunting alone, or with Chingachgook and Nathaniel who were in many ways extensions of himself; Nachenum had been a comfortable occasional hunting partner in the past weeks but beyond that he was not entirely sure what to expect of this older cousin.

"The end of providing, of course."

"I have no one to provide for." _Now._

"You have yourself." Machque gave him another, less hearty and more meaningful slap across the shoulder. "Have some pride, man."

_I don't have that, either._

_It left with her._

"And come back to the campfire," his Delaware relative called, as he departed, leaving him alone with the murmuring river.

Uncas grunted in acknowledgement but still he stayed, watching the passage of the moon, alert, as if he were on guard, waiting. Waiting for the night to pass. He remained there until the distant laughter and chatter faded, until the last tiny plume of smoke dissipated into nothing above the treetops, until the black gave way to the hazy, dismal grey of autumn pre-dawn. Then he returned to the wikwam, where he fell into sleep that was fragmented, partial; the way it always was for him, but which had ceased to be restorative.

* * *

Alice sat upright in bed, heart pounding. _I forgot to put the corn to soak! If I don't do it now, we will have nothing to eat tomorrow. _She thrust back the covers, and swung her feet out of bed, preparing for the shock of cool air on her skin; but, though the air was chilly, it was not fragrant with pine. Further, the silk-covered, embroidered blankets had definitely not come from the hide of a wolf or deer.

She stared into the darkness, disoriented, her fingers running over the edge of the bed.

For the last few nights dreams of the cabin had plagued her; little bits of sunshine, moments spent on the furs in front of the fire, tramping through the forest on snowshoes, a warm hand enveloping hers...

_Uncas._

No. No! she would not think of him. She thought of him enough during the endless days. Night was her own; her refuge.

Dark hair brushing against her face; his mouth, caught in the rarest of half-smiles; his fingers, warming the bracelet around her arm, fitting it to her skin.

_Do you belong to me or not?_

Alice writhed. The images were merciless. The memories, tormenting. She slipped away from the bed and darted to the window, throwing its heavy shutters open. Night air streamed in. She breathed deeply of it, trying to find any scent that was familiar, comforting, but it was all city, foreign. Unidentifiable.

Doubt struck her then with an almost palpable intensity. Though rationally she knew a month had passed since she had left Uncas, it seemed so much longer. Why was there nothing? Why did he not come? Surely he meant to come, even if only...to see that she was all right? Even if he had grown angry at her, she was sure he would still want to know that she was safe.

There were no answers in the cool breeze flooding through the window. Alice felt tears pricking at her eyes. She had been so wrong. She had been so certain she would gain some understanding from this choice; that a sense of purpose and clarity would be restored to her. But she understood nothing. Felt nothing but loss and loneliness. What had Chingachgook said to her? _When you have found what you are looking for, you will come back_.

"But I don't know how," she hissed, desperately, into the sky.

Another unwanted memory came to her mind. The morning she had left the wolf camp, she had avoided meeting Uncas' gaze for fear of what she would see in his eyes, but there had been a moment when he had caught her hand, and she had looked up-knowing it was their goodbye, but unable to speak. His face had had on it an expression she couldn't, at the time, let herself understand with her heart. Cognitively, she had realized it was a poignant mix of love and regret.

And now, she herself knew the pain of it.

_I'm sorry,_ her heart whispered. Her throat was too full to say the words out loud.

She knelt by the window until she was stiff and cold and in a strange way it felt right to do so, as if it were penance, as if by suffering she could bring herself closer to him. It helped a little to think that, perhaps, he too was keeping vigil somewhere under the same moon.

* * *

Uncas tilted his head, listening. Though these woods were not his own, they were beginning to have their own tang of familiarity for him, in the way of a recent acquaintance lending itself to friendship. It was odd, however, being able to hear only the sounds of nature. He had become accustomed to Ben's clumsy foundering along the forest floor. As much as the boy had progressed in their time at the camp, he was never, Uncas judged, going to be able to count the ability to walk noiselessly through the woods among his strengths.

But they had left Ben behind today. It was now nearing mid-morning, and Machque had kept quiet pace beside him thus far, but here at the stream side where they paused for a water break, Uncas felt the eyes of his cousin's husband upon him. He had suspected he might be subject to a lecture at some point in the day and was therefore not especially surprised when Machque said, "Nachenum told me you and your father are wintering at the camp with us."

"He does not want to travel more this year." Uncas balanced one knee lightly against a flat rock as he leaned in to fill his water container from the slowly-gurgling stream.

"But you will go back before your brother's child comes?"

"In early spring."

"Foolish of them to travel such a distance," Machque said.

"Nathaniel will keep her safe."

"Still, a woman should have other women around when her time comes." Machque looked doubtful for a moment. "Is that not what the Yengeese believe?"

"I don't know." It was a good point, however; Uncas wondered briefly if he, his father and Nathaniel were going to have to be actively involved in the birthing process—of which, since it was not a man's domain, he knew virtually nothing.

_If it were my baby I would never have let—her—leave._

He tried to distract himself from such thoughts. Scooping up the waterbag, he slung it over his shoulder and then cupped a few handfuls from the stream to splash in his face. His eyes felt heavy, and the water stung him back into awareness of the physical. But Machque was, unfortunately, not finished with the conversation. Though Uncas rose to go, Machque put a hand on his shoulder, halting him. He did not shrug it off, or take offense; his Delaware relative was older and had the right.

They met each other's gaze. Uncas knew his tiredness read on his face; more than that, more than last night's lack of sleep, he knew that the past few weeks, spent without Alice, had been characterized by an utter lack of rest or peace, and he knew Machque could read this on his face too. He hadn't the energy to hide it. So he just looked. It was not an enemy he faced, after all. It was family.

Machque stared at him, assessing, his own eyes narrowed, for what seemed like a long time. Then his jaw relaxed a little and he sighed out through his nose, as if in momentary empathic sadness. "_Nimat_. You must go after her."

"I cannot," Uncas answered, steadily, just as he answered the voice that echoed the same directive in his mind on a nearly constant basis. _You must follow her, you must find her. I cannot. It is as she wanted it._

_"_You must. If she means that much to you, that you can neither sleep nor breathe in her absence." Machque's voice held a curious tinge of scorn blent with concern.

"I am breathing, do you not see me breathing?"

"I have seen dead men looking more alive than you are," Machque replied bluntly. "Go! Go to the city. Find the girl, bring her back, before she gets too comfortable among her people. If you wait longer you will never get her back. Is that what you want? To lose her without ever having fought for her?"

Uncas pushed past him now. "I did not come here today to hear this."

"Didn't you? I told you I would be watching you. And I have been, and I have seen what you've become. My brother was right, you aren't trying, you are doing no good here."

Nachenum had not approached Uncas to discuss any matters since the departure of Alice and the fact that they had been discussing him did sting. "If I am not welcome, I do not need to stay."

"Don't be a fool. That is not what I mean."

"And have you gone to my father? Gathered his opinion? Perhaps you have inquired of everyone in the camp, what they think I should be doing." Uncas tried to repress the bitterness that threatened again; it was not a useful nor practical emotion; far more important to remain calm, so that Machque would realize he intended to be ruled by his mind, not by his heart. Stooping, he gathered his supply bag and slung his rifle over his shoulder striding away thinking _Any game that was near has been scared off—_

"She is alone."

Uncas' foot faltered and he came to a stumbling halt, thinking for a split second that it was the voice in his head again. But of course Machque had spoken. He paused for a moment, then half-turned, looking back the dozen paces at his relative still standing by the stream. "What?"

Machque looked somber, shadowed, in the sunless day's light. "She has nothing there. No one."

"No. You told me. You just said she was among her people." Uncas shook his head. He felt as if the world had suddenly filled with the buzzing of insects. "Father saw her taken in. He would not have left her there if he thought she would not be safe."

"She is alone. And you know this, it is why you have no rest."

"You're wrong." But it was with little conviction he argued. Again it was as though Machque merely represented his inner spirit that had been making such claims for some time.

"What if I am not? Could you live with that?"

Uncas remained silent. He knew his answer showed on his face.

"Go," Machque urged. "The only shame in coming home empty-handed is if you have not _tried._"

Leaves, stirred by a faint breeze in the trees beyond them, dislodged themselves and tumbled, skittering, to the ground. _Go_.

_Go._


	18. Chapter 18

Alice pushed the spoon along the rim of her plate, still laden with biscuit and honey, in an idle attempt to disguise the fact that she had consumed very little of it. The biscuits seemed as light as always, but her palate was growing tired of the sweetness. She wondered if she were perhaps getting ill. There was a malaise in her limbs and a nausea in her stomach. Could it be attributed to the last few sleepless nights? She vaguely remembered Mary-Elizabeth and her friend Mrs. Wesley having had a recent conversation about rumors of sickness in the city, Esmond's health being a topic of continued interest to his mother.

_I hope I am not sick. I am sure I would be confined to my bed...and then however would I pass the days, which are long enough as it is? _For she could find nothing very diverting to do about the house, and the visits to Mrs. Wesley's were now performed out of social obligation; but it would be far worse to have nothing at all with which to pass the time.

It was not unpleasant to chat with Esmond, even under the scrutiny of his mother. He was really no more than a boy, to be sure; but there was nothing assuming in his manner, which Alice liked, and she had decided that his masculinity was completely nonthreatening. He had even coaxed her into playing the clavichord again and they had laughed together over her initial stumbling performance. She couldn't consider him a friend on such short acquaintance, of course; but he was congenial, and their interactions were a novelty in her otherwise increasingly routinized days.

"Dear girl, you haven't eaten anything," Mary-Elizabeth observed.

Alice set the spoon down guiltily, realizing that her face had revealed she was lost in thought.

"Are you unwell?"

Alice summoned up a smile, knowing an assent would result in an over-concerned dismissal to bed. "Merely not hungry, Aunt."

"Well, I hope you have regained your appetite by this evening."

Alice stared at her and her confusion, once again, must have registered because Mary-Elizabeth let out her bell-like laugh. "You have forgotten about tonight's diversion!"

"Your dinner party," Alice said, feeling like a fool.

She had in fact known for some time that her relative had been planning a small fete to be held that evening—dinner, followed by dancing. The Wesleys were coming, of course, and some more of their mutual friends; Esmond had promised to introduce Alice to a few of his acquaintances. Alice, though she had no particular heart for making these acquaintances or even attending a full table of guests, knew that Mary-Elizabeth wanted to see her socializing with other young people and she had gamely committed to taking part the fortnight previously, when the idea of a party had first been broached.

"I did forget. I'm sure my appetite will be better. I imagine Cook has a lovely feast prepared," she said, trying to smile.

"Joan will bring your new dress and do your hair this afternoon," Mary-Elizabeth went on.

"I have plenty of dresses." Alice sensed her protestation would be in vain.

She was right, as it was met with an indulgent smile. "I promised I would spoil you in that regard. You have nothing else suitable for a dinner party. You will try it on, won't you? And let Joan do any altering if need be."

Alice inclined her head, resigned. After all, it was only kindness on the other woman's part. And she would only have to be on display for a few hours. Certainly she could smile obligingly and curtsey prettily for that length of time, even though she felt less than well. If the night grew tedious before it was over, she could always complain of a headache and beg her leave early.

Later, sitting in her petticoat in front of the mirror, while Joan attempted to tease her recalcitrant hair into curls piled atop her head, she wondered if she would need to invent the headache. Her neck was already growing stiff. She could remember having endured these types of attentions back in England, but it was difficult to recall just how. It seemed so frivolous now. Alice couldn't stop her mind from wandering, thinking surely there was something else more profitable to be doing; then she would remember with a start that meal preparations were no longer her concern, nor did she have water to fetch or furs to hang or a fire to tend...

"You look beautiful, miss." Joan had helped her into the new dress and was fastening it at the back, smiling over Alice's shoulder as they looked into the mirror together.

Alice realized she had been looking at herself but with no recognition. Now she smiled in return, a little vaguely. The gown was indeed pretty. It had a bodice and underskirt of pale pink, with cream-colored lace at the neck and along the elbow-length sleeves. She did not know if the color was becoming to her. Her face seemed pale and solemn underneath its tan.

"My curls won't hold," she said, distantly.

"Oh, but they must." Joan gave the up-swept ringlets a tentative, concerned pat. Alice wanted to smile at her earnestness. She wanted to say that it did not matter. What could one's hair possibly matter? Suddenly she missed Cora powerfully.

"I am done. Will you knock on my door when it is time to come down for dinner?" she asked, hearing the catch in her voice.

Joan bobbed her own head quickly and withdrew.

Alice was left alone. The room seemed unaccountably large. She sat back down on the dressing stool, spreading her skirts out in front of her, smoothing the fine imported fabric under her fingers.

_I should be happy. I _will _be happy—for Aunt Mary's sake at least, for one evening at least. I owe her that. I owe her much more than that._

_Feigned happiness is all I can produce tonight, but it will have to do._

Bleakly she waited for the rest of the afternoon to pass; for quick-growing darkness to descend, signaling the arrival of the dinner hour; she waited for the squeak of carriage wheels, heralding the arrival of their guests. She waited for the nausea to fade, although it did not; and she waited for Joan's light tap on the door.

* * *

The dining room had been transformed from the cozy inviting space Alice knew it as to a glittering, impressive chamber. The table had many more chairs clustered around it and seemed to have grown considerably in order to accommodate the feast which was laid out on its surface. China and crystal sparkled in the candlelight. Mary-Elizabeth had hired in extra help than she normally retained in order to ensure everyone's comfort and satisfaction. Looking around, Alice thought that her relative had done well; their surroundings were beautiful, but not intimidating.

Esmond slipped into the chair on her left and gave her his cheeky, boyish grin. She was surprised to feel relieved that he had joined her; she had not wanted to have to make any more awkward dinner conversation than was necessary. Relaxing a little, she smiled back at him. "How have you been?"

"Fine. Charles wants to dance with you."

"Which one was Charles?" Alice followed his gaze down the table at the two gentlemen she vaguely recalling having been introduced to earlier. One had been tall and unremarkable and the other, undeniably handsome but with an oddly off-putting manner. It couldn't have been him.

"Does your answer depend on mine?" Esmond gibed.

"I'm not sure. To be honest, I did not really have it in mind to dance tonight, Esmond. With anyone."

He made a moue. "Now _that_ is not something one commonly hears from a young and pretty girl! Surely you will dance with _me_."

Alice returned his grimace with her own, deciding to ignore the compliment, since she wasn't sure if that part was meant in jest. "I am not entirely well. It is only for Aunt's sake that I am here at all," she added in a murmur, looking up towards their left at the head of the table where the host sat. "But if I must dance—for appearances—certainly I would rather it be with you."

"And break Charles's heart in the process."

Alice knew that this type of light wordplay was necessarily part of the evening but she felt a knot of uncomfortable feeling settling in her stomach. A broken heart was no laughing matter, surely? Of course she knew Esmond was just being silly. What did a boy know about love? What had she known about love a year ago?

_What do I even know about it now?_

"He will simply," she said after a little while, "have to struggle along somehow."

Esmond's appreciative laugh before he turned to his other side to address the young lady who had just asked him something, told her that this was the appropriate comment.

Alice picked up her spoon and sipped slowly at the soup, which burst with flavor as the delicate herbs competed for attention on her tongue, but which was without any kind of substance.


	19. Chapter 19

Chilly autumn rain was pouring down on the city of Albany when Uncas arrived at his destination on Chestnut Street. A thick fog lurked in the air, swept in from the harbor.

Uncas was soaked and, if he had cared to think about it, cold. There was something vicious, punishing, about the quality of the rain. Yet it also purified, stripping the sweat and mud from his body. He had barely slept since leaving the wolf camp. Ate for the barest of sustenance only. But he was alive. He felt alive, and awake. The most awake he'd been since Alice had left.

Noting and avoiding the carriages lined up along the shadowy street front, Uncas headed off into the thinly-wooded forest to the side of the house. Light spilled out towards the back, and he followed it, knowing that he had almost found her, the knowledge a sweet reassurance after weeks of suppressed doubt.

Music drifted out, airy and foreign, reminding him he was far from home. He thought suddenly how good it would be to have Nathaniel at his side right now, that that link—however tenuous—with the English culture would be a source of comfort to him.

It wasn't that he was afraid to face them. He would have faced the entire British army alone if they stood between him and Alice, but there was a subtlety—a delicacy—he sensed would be required here that he wasn't certain he possessed. Uncas knew Nathaniel would scoff to hear such thoughts.

There was a small stone terrace, glistening with rain, and beyond it the door-length, partially opened windows through which the light and sounds were coming. He saw men, circling around women, all fantastically dressed, moving in accord with the music, resembling exotic birds that he had seen line drawings of in his father's books.

He did not see her.

Though his stomach clenched with the urge to run through the doors, shattering them, and demand to see her, he moved purposefully, slowly, closer, staying within the shelter of the trees. _Haste ruins many a hunt._ Chingachgook liked to say this.

Rain ran down from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers.

He saw her then. She was not dancing, but was standing near the wall. There were others near her, but she was not speaking to them, nor smiling.

Alice looked different—so different—from when they had parted, but more than that, she looked lost. It reminded him starkly of the moment he had first laid eyes on her. Hiding behind Cora in the pre-dusk of a late summer's day. Now, her expression was composed, but even at a distance, Uncas could see the lost-ness in her eyes.

Now that he knew who she was—now that he _loved_ who she was—it made his heart clench to see her so alone.

He would almost rather see her smiling at someone, seeing proof of happiness, than this.

The music lilted, then came to a slow stop. In the small ballroom, the couples finished their steps.

Uncas gained the terrace, stood there for a moment. He hadn't intended to make the dramatic entrance this was going to be. He had pictured himself going to the front door even if it had meant, as it surely would have, being shooed away by a shocked butler or have the door slammed in his face by a terrified maid. But now that he was here, and, having seen Alice, he couldn't turn away.

It was as it had to be.

He placed a hand against the doors and sent them swinging gently inwards. At first, nobody noticed him. It seemed like a full few moments before anyone did: a lady nearest him, who let out a small shriek and clutched at her partner. Then everyone was staring, frozen.

Uncas stood, lightly, poised for movement. He kept his hands down at his sides, palms out, so that any of them who had a breath of sense would see he was not bearing weapons. He dripped rainwater onto the polished ballroom floor. The taps were like heartbeats in the silence.

Alice made a forward movement, a gesture, then checked herself. She looked stunned. But gladdened. Or did he only think so?

"_Wiyon-ashay_," he said. Speaking without thinking.

"What the devil is he doing?" one of the men demanded, striding forward. Still no one else had moved, with the exception of the closest couple who had scurried a decent distance down the length of the room.

"Ask him," another prompted.

"He can't understand."

Alice's small voice somehow carried the length of the room. "He can."

Eyes and heads turned in her direction. Color rushed into Alice's cheekbones.

A young man near her demanded, "You know this...this..."

"Person," Uncas supplied.

Some of the women gasped, while another man began to hustle them out of the ballroom through the main doors. An elderly lady took Alice's elbow, urging her to move but Alice pulled back and said, "No! I will not go...Yes, Esmond, I do know him."

"I wish only to speak with her," Uncas said. "I have no desire to harm anyone, or discourse with any other."

"Cheeky fellow," the first man observed. He had cold blue eyes. Uncas suspected that the mentioned lack of desire to do harm was not shared.

The elderly lady spoke with an air of authority. "Esmond, it grows late, and the ladies are waiting unaccompanied. Do see your friends out."

"Of course, Mrs. Gordon." The young man moved to do her bidding, approaching his friend who was still staring at Uncas.

"I do not understand how such a creature can claim to know an Englishwoman," the man said, "but you are not welcome here."

Uncas gazed past him at Alice. He didn't smile. "Nonetheless, I will speak to her."

The man stepped in then and though Uncas saw his intent, he did not avoid the contact. His arm was grabbed and brought out and up, as if the other intended to divest him of potential weaponry or disconcert him. In fact his knife—a replacement for the one Ben had dropped into the river—was strapped along the inside of his other forearm and he could easily have employed it, but he did not.

He maintained an even gaze, and said, politely, "Remove your hand, or I will remove it for you."

"Fancy talk for a savage," the man returned, not complying.

Uncas twisted his wrist, effortlessly breaking free of the hold. It was hard then to resist any further action, but Alice and her relative were both watching, and he didn't want to kill or unnecessarily humiliate this fool, just have him out of the way.

Esmond grabbed his friend by the shoulders now, speaking to him in an urgent undertone, and hustled him in the direction of the exit, not without some difficulty.

"This is most irregular," the woman called Mrs. Gordon said.

"Aunt, please," Alice spoke again, faintly. "Will you allow us a few moments. He is the brother of the man my sister married."

"A few moments only," Mrs. Gordon warned, taking a deep breath, but she too, began to move away, her gaze flitting uncertainly from Uncas to Alice and back again.

They were left alone in the ballroom, although it was scarcely private; he suspected the woman was remaining just outside, and they could still hear the murmur of voices of shocked guests taking their leave. And above it all, the steady downpour of rain behind, through the still-open back doors.

"You came," Alice said. He could barely hear her now. He started to go to her but thought she flinched, so he stopped.

"Is...is all well?" she offered, hesitantly.

"No," Uncas said. "Not without you."

He had not meant the statement to be hurtful but he saw that it affected her regardless. Her eyes grew very wide, and she cast a glance towards the door, as if in guilt.

"How have you been treated here?"

"Perfectly. My aunt has been very kind."

"Yet you look ill."

"If I am, it is no fault of hers."

"Is this how you have been living?"

Alice blinked at him, not understanding.

He gestured around him, at the gleaming lights, at her dress, in mute frustration.

"No," she said, after a few more moments. "We live very simply...today was a special..and unique...occasion."

"Which I interrupted."

Alice hesitated, biting her bottom lip. "I do fear for my aunt's first impression of you."

"Did I frighten her?"

"I think you frightened us all."

He took a step closer, wanting to take her into his arms, aware that he was completely sodden and if the relative reappeared as she was bound to do she would doubtless think Alice was being attacked. "Do I look so terrible?"

"You look like home," Alice said, with a faint, fey smile that in the same instant turned vague and her eyes, losing focus. For an instant he stared at her—it was as if a cold spirit had passed a hand across her face, and then she swayed, and he was close enough now to catch her.

_She _is _sick_. Cradling her in his arms then, unmindful of the fact that his soaked clothes were effectively soaking hers, Uncas strode towards the door.

Mrs. Gordon was at the end of the hallway, bidding farewell to the last of the guests, but came at once when he emerged. Her expression was a mixture of concern and confusion blent with a touch of suspicion.

Alice's eyelids fluttered as they were met with the cooler air of the hallway, and she gave a sudden, sharp moan.

"Where can I bring her?"

The lady of the house took a quick breath, as if to steady herself, then as a stunned maid appeared in the background she said sharply, "Joan! Send for the doctor at once." Then, to Uncas, after another brief hesitation, "This way."

Once in the room that Alice had been occupying, Uncas brought her to the bed and laid her carefully down on it. Alice clung to him, feebly, her eyes now closed. He gently worked her arms free, and brought the quilts up around her, passing a hand over her brow to feel for fever, but her forehead was cool.

Mrs. Gordon hovered by the other side of the bed. Uncas murmured a few soothing phrases in Mohegan to Alice, disregarding the other woman's presence. _It will be all right_. Most probably she was just overtired; he could see the faint discoloration under her eyes, the shallowness of her breathing. But then her hand, still gripping his arm, contracted as if in pain, and she moaned again.

The immaculate, lavendar-scented room held them apart; by its starched silence, the space between them was widened. He stared at her hair, the color of bleached sand, spilling limply around her face. He wanted to stroke it but resisted; for Alice's sake, he did not want to presume their relationship to Mrs. Gordon any further than they already had. Alice might still want to send him away, once she came fully to her senses. The thought was painful; but he had not come to Albany with the expectation of bringing her back with him, even if it were what Machque and the others anticipated.

She still had to choose.

"Please," Mrs. Gordon said after a short while, looking much discomfited as he glanced up at her. "I do not know your name...But you cannot be here when the doctor arrives. Will you go below, to the kitchen? They will give you food, or whatever you require. Since it seems you are related to Alice, I can hardly send you away...But—you must understand me."

"Yes," he said, a little dryly. "I understand you." He looked back down at Alice for a few more moments, aware that Mrs. Gordon was holding her breath. "Once the doctor has seen her, I will be told?"

She nodded. "I will see to it myself."

Uncas rose, uncurling Alice's hand from his arm though she jerked in fitful protest. He did not want to leave her, not so soon, but the need for it was undeniable. He touched the top of her head again for a moment—_Manto keep you safe, I will return—_and backed out of the room silently, closing the door as he went.


	20. Chapter 20

With an effort, Alice opened her eyes, wondering why the hand against her forehead was so cool. There was a faintly medicinal smell mingled with tobacco that was, she realized after a few moments trying to place it, reminiscent of her father. Why had Uncas left, and who was at her side in his stead?

Heavy grey eyebrows drew together on the face she was trying to sort out. Drowsiness warred with curiosity as Alice stared at the elderly man, aware of a lingering ache in her stomach.

"I am the doctor," he announced. "I have given you a nostrum which may make you light-headed. You must stay in bed."

She could not object, but her mind was too full of questions now to rest. Where was Uncas—had he gone, or been sent away from the house? In the dark, and this terrible weather—she could hear the continued patter of rain beyond the closed and shuttered bedroom window.

"There are matters I must discuss with your husband. Where is he?"

Alice felt a bud of panic blossom in her chest and she could not find any words, though several different answers popped immediately into her mind.

_I have no husband._

_I have a husband, but he is not one you can meet._

_I have a husband—of sorts—but I am not sure if he still wants me..._

Tears of confusion and fear welled in her eyes. She blinked at them. "I...I don't know."

The doctor's eyebrows threatened to meet in the middle of his lined forehead. "In that case who is responsible for you?"

"I suppose...my aunt. Mary-Elizabeth Gordon, whose house this is."

"Then I must speak with her again." The doctor rose.

Alice instinctively caught at the sombre dark coat, forestalling him. "Wait. Please," she added, humbly, sensing an antipathy in his manner that she was at a loss to understand, but knowing she needed to placate him. "Is something...wrong with me? I haven't been feeling very well...they said there was sickness in the city..."

Her voice trailed off as she realized he was looking at her now with something akin to pity.

"It is not the sickness," he said. "You were in the early stages of pregnancy, but have since miscarried. With rest and care you should make a good recovery," and he moved away as her hand fell.

She stared at the door for a while after the doctor had left. His last two sentences played over and over, mercilessly, in her mind, but they didn't make any kind of sense. She had never imagined such a thing. It was a cruel gift, this knowledge. She did not even know what it meant, beyond that she was no longer with child. Her child, and Uncas's. Something they had made together had ceased to be. Was that not a message?

Alice felt sick with emptiness. Grabbing the pillow under her head, she turned and buried her face in it, as if to smother the turmoil in her mind.

* * *

Uncas found the kitchen darkened and deserted. Perhaps the house-servants Alice's aunt had referenced had retired early, or fled in advance of his arrival; it was impossible to know. The embers of a fire still burned in the cooking hearth.

He lit one of the short candles that was resting on the wooden preparation table, whose surface was scattered with leftovers, and added a few logs to the fire. Though he had no particular desire to rummage around for something to eat, he did help himself to fresh drinking water. It helped to allay the fatigue he inevitably felt. Rarely he had headaches, but one was building now and he ascribed it to the flood of noise, color and movement that had assailed him since arriving at the house.

He rested his head on his arms for a while and passed some time thus. Indoors, without the moon, it was difficult to know the approximate hour. He sat upright again when he heard quiet footsteps.

Mrs. Gordon appeared in the kitchen doorway. "The doctor has talked to me only to let me know Alice's condition is not worsening. I assume he will know more later." She came in, frowning slightly as she only now seemed to notice the state of the kitchen. "Cook is not here? I'm sorry, I thought there would yet be someone to give you food."

"It does not matter." Uncas resisted adding that he was not in the habit of waiting about for someone to feed him.

Mary-Elizabeth came further into the room, her forehead knitted. "This evening's circumstances have been...rather unusual. Your being here puts me in a difficult position." As he met her uncertain gaze with his own steady one she said hastily, "Please, as I said before, I do not wish you to misunderstand me. But I can hardly welcome you as a guest in my home. It would be most improper, even if—as you say—you are a relative."

"I will not leave unless Alice asks me to," Uncas said. "I do not need to sleep under your roof. The trees behind the house provide adequate shelter."

She looked horrified. Had he been in the mood to appreciate it, it would have been almost amusing. "But you cannot mean to sleep...out-of-doors, surely."

"It is not pleasant in the dead of winter," Uncas agreed, "but tonight, and the next few nights, will be mild. I have no intention of inconveniencing you."

He said this with a touch of dryness and saw her twist her hands together, slightly flustered. "It is not a matter of space, but of propriety. Still I can hardly countenance someone camping amongst the trees. My servants go home at nights; they do not sleep here, but there is a small room at the end of the kitchen where they store some things? Perhaps you might..." She gestured uncomfortably.

Uncas rose and gravely inspected the room on offer. It was indeed small, with a few items of clothing hung on the wall, a washstand, and some wooden chests stacked upon each other.

He thought he would simply tell her that he would be happier under the sky, rain or not; that he had no need of being enclosed within walls just for its own sake, but he saw the internal conflict that prompted her to make such an offer, even while she said he could not stay in the house; and it seemed it would be more right to accept the gesture.

He inclined his head.

Mary-Elizabeth stood by the table, her posture still hesitant, undecided. She took a breath as though to speak, and then held it. Uncas waited, patiently. At last she committed. "Alice was most upset when she arrived here to stay with me. I hope you do not mean to...bring her back whence you came?"

Uncas let the question sit for a few moments. "What did she tell you?"

"Of her circumstances there, very little," Mary-Elizabeth admitted. "But clearly she has been through a troublesome time. I have been trying to piece together just what...She told me that her sister Cora had married your—brother?"

"He was born of white parents," Uncas said.

"I see. Er..m." She stared at him in utter bewilderment. "Be that as it may. She indicated that she felt out of place...perhaps she had been made to feel unwelcome by them?"

"No," Uncas said. "I do not think so."

This silenced her for a short time.

The candle guttered on the tabletop, sending black smoke spiraling up towards the ceiling beams.

"I still do not know your name," she said at last.

Uncas watched the candle flame as it began its final protest. He crossed back over to the table and lit a new candle by the dying light of the old, dispelling some of the shadows. Then he looked at the woman, and said, in a tone that he knew was rather quelling, "I am Uncas, son of Chingachgook, of the wolf people. As it was Alice's choice to come to this house, so it will be to leave or not. When she is well—I will ask her."

Mary-Elizabeth did not look completely cowed, and he had to appreciate that. "She has everything here that she needs."

"Perhaps," he accorded. But he was remembering the lost look on his Alice's face when he had seen her in the ballroom.

_She has nothing there_, Machque had said.

Alice would have to be the one to tell them, herself, where the truth lay.

* * *

The bedroom door swung open again. Alice tensed, not certain who she had to prepare herself to see there. Dim candlelight revealed the sober face of her aunt.

"The doctor has left," she said softly, coming to the side of the bed. " Before going, he told me of your...condition."

Alice stared at the blankets. Mary-Elizabeth's tone was gentle mixed with a hint of reproof and it was more difficult to bear than judgment, or anger.

After a moment Mary-Elizabeth set the candle on the side table and sat down, gingerly, on the edge of the bed. "Alice. Why did not you tell me?"

"I did not myself know."

"But—of the congress which produced it—"

"Aunt. Where is Uncas?" Alice tried to speak steadily but knew her voice was quivering dependent on the answer she should receive.

"Below, in the kitchen." Mary-Elizabeth's gaze grew keener, and then, very softly she remarked, "Your concern for each other is hard to ignore, Alice. Was it he who—"

"Please!"

"Let me finish, Alice. I will rephrase. Is he the reason you said you could not marry?"

Alice nodded, her throat having inexorably tightened after the brief outburst.

_At the least, he was. I don't know if he still is._

Her heart ached.

"Oh, my dear child." The older woman shifted closer, reaching out to take Alice's hands which were wrapped tightly, twisted, amongst the covers. "Does this mean you have regard for a—for him? You must know it is completely impossible—"

"It is not impossible! It has been! It will be!" Alice had no idea what she was saying but the words suddenly came from her in an agonizing outpouring. "I want to see him. I want to see him _now_. Send him to me."

She caught a glimpse of Joan's frightened face now, as the maid hovered in the background beyond the still-open door. _They must think me mad. Well, I shall go mad—_

Mary-Elizabeth pressed on her shoulders. "Lie back, you must not exert yourself! Of course you shall see him. Joan, fetch—our visitor—at once. There. Think of your health now. We can talk of the other matters later..."

"I don't want to talk," Alice murmured stubbornly. The temporary exertion of will had dominated but she felt suddenly weak and fragile again. Covered by the blanket her hands were shaking.

_I must tell him...that will be hard...but not so hard as bearing this alone._


	21. Chapter 21

Uncas had not thought to see Alice until the morning, so when the fearful little maid called Joan appeared in the kitchen and bade him follow her upstairs, it was difficult not to assume that something had gone wrong. In the interval of time since Mrs. Gordon had left he'd managed to change into a set of dry clothing packed in his journey-bag, and hung the others by the fire to dry.

Then the maid had arrived and, with eyes the size of tiny moons, stammered out her mistress' directive, and darted off so fast that if he hadn't remembered the way back to Alice's bedroom after having been there earlier, she might have lost him.

He expected to find the room ablaze and the doctor still present, but the upper hallway was quiet, only Alice's aunt slipping out of the chamber, and gesturing towards the door with a worried expression as he approached.

"She does not sleep?"

"The doctor gave her a draft, but she is restless and asks for you. In light of her misfortune I thought it best not to deny her anything." Mary-Elizabeth looked back at the partially opened door.

He couldn't think what she was talking about, but concern for Alice overrode the desire to ask her to clarify. Moving past her, he entered the room.

Alice struggled into a sitting position. "You left me," she said feebly.

At first it seemed like a mere petulant observation of the kind he had heard many a time from her, but as he came closer he saw that her eyes were swimming in tears. He sat down on the bed (aunt be damned) and took her shoulders gently. "I had to. They did not want me here when the doctor came."

"I was worried. I thought—you _left_."

"I would not, unless you wished it."

Alice let out a little hiccuping sigh, as he used the heel of his hand to smooth away a rogue tear escaping down her cheek. "And I thought you might have been sent away."

"No. In fact, there is a room downstairs for me."

"Then you...spoke with my aunt?"

"She was quite welcoming," Uncas said. He did not see how at this point giving the particulars of their conversation would be helpful to Alice, who needed to rest. Though Alice looked briefly confused instead of comforted. "She was?"

"Yes. Can you sleep now?"

Alice shook her head. Locks of wavy hair fell over her shoulders, shadowing her face.

He waited.

Rain skipped and spat against the sides of the house, but with less fury as the night deepened. He sensed it would be clear by dawn.

"The doctor said—"

He looked at the fine bones in her jaw, which trembled as if clenched. At the movement in her throat as she swallowed.

"He said we...I...was carrying a baby but—am not, any longer."

Her voice cracked at the end. Uncas took the shock that the announcement was and absorbed it without a change in expression, knowing it was difficult enough for her to tell him so plainly that he could hardly let her see emotion when she was so struggling to keep hers in line.

But—_Manto, did she leave me knowing that we were going to have a child?_ He didn't think he could reconcile himself to that idea if it were true. How could he? What man could? He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think past the feelings, the doubt.

"I'm sorry," Alice whispered, and he was effectively distracted from his line of thoughts. She wasn't apologizing for having left him. She was apologizing because she thought he blamed her.

Which, regardless of anything else, wasn't right at all.

He shifted closer to her and put his arms around her, as carefully as possible.

"There is nothing to be sorry for," he said, into her hair.

_Nothing for you. I should have been here_.

"I feel so tired," Alice's voice was high and light against his chest. There was so much yet to say, but he knew how badly she needed to sleep.

"Rest." As he had done hours earlier he carefully untwined her arms from him and helped her to settle down into the pillows.

"You won't go...?" She stared up at him with eyes that looked burnt with fatigue.

"I swear."

She seemed to relax then, allowing him to guide the blankets up around her shoulders. "Lie beside me," she ordered feebly.

Uncas hesitated for an instant. He doubted the aunt would allow them to sleep undisturbed until morning, after having stipulated that he could not occupy a guest room and had only unbent enough to offer him temporary quarters in the kitchen—which offer she might well retract once the rain stopped or once she discovered him here. That did not much matter, of course. And as Mary-Elizabeth herself had said that Alice should not be denied anything...

He settled down on top of the quilts, next to Alice who was underneath them, and put an arm around her slight form. It was not long before her breathing became soft and even, and she fell asleep, aided by whatever medicine the doctor had given her. Then he leaned carefully across and blew out the candles on the bedside tables, sending the room into quiet darkness.

* * *

Morning was unwelcome; only the ache in her head and the pressing need to void prompted Alice to open her eyes to greet its arrival. She realized that she was, moreover, hungry, having last consumed only soup the evening of the dinner party.

Uncas was standing by the window, looking out, and she watched him, unobserved, for a moment while she could. It was strange to her that he could seem both so out of place and completely comfortable to her eyes at the same time. Just before she had fainted she remembered telling him he looked like home. He did. It had been true.

He just didn't belong here.

And neither did she.

_But how to say that? Now, more than ever...with our loss. What do I tell him? What if he feels differently about me now?_

Uncas looked back at her with that sense he always seemed to have, though she had not moved. Alice felt a stab of shyness. She glanced down at herself, belatedly realizing that she didn't even know what she was wearing underneath all the blankets. A modest sleeping gown. Probably Mary-Elizabeth and Joan had changed her into it at some point.

She hoped he would not make any reference to the night gone by. To anything concerning the revelation she had unwillingly had to make to him.

To anything concerning—what they had made together.

"It has stopped raining," Uncas finally said. When she didn't respond, he drew in the shutter and came back to the bedside. "Do you need anything?"

"Yes, I—" Alice struggled to find a euphemism to communicate what she needed to do. Some things were, after all, not appropriate topics for discussion. "I want to wash my face. Will you bring water? And send Joan or my aunt if they can be found."

He went to accede to her request, moccasins noiseless against the floors. Joan must have been nearby—perhaps even lurking outside—because it seemed only moments before she peeped around the door. She assisted in the necessary duties and Alice was tucked back into bed, relieved.

"I was to the doctor's this morning already, miss. He gave more medicine for you and instructed you take any food you liked except hot." Joan's face was both anxious and encouraging as she procured a dark bottle from her apron pockets and set it on the table.

"I am hungry," Alice confessed. "But I think the medicine has given me this awful headache. I will not take more."

Uncas returned to the room, bearing a jug of water, in time to hear the last part of her words. He frowned slightly. Joan let out a barely audible squeak, curtsied and fled.

"I was going to tell her to bring something to eat, and you have scared her off," Alice said, crossly.

Uncas set down the water and examined the bottle, unstoppered it, and took a cautious sniff. His nose wrinkled. "You must take the remedy."

"Why, because it smells terrible?"

"Because you need rest. You did sleep well, didn't you?"

Alice nodded. Besides the headache, a feeling of lassitude lingered in her body that made her in no hurry to attempt climbing out of bed. He was probably right.

"What will you do today?" she ventured after a few moments of silence passed.

"Sit with you."

She wanted to argue, but really, it would only be token. There wasn't much she could suggest for him to do instead.

"Unless," he added, "you would rather I did not."

Alice realized he had mistaken her silence for dissent. "No," she said meekly.

Uncas put the bottle back. "I will get some food."

Alice stared at the opposite wall, at the elaborate chest of drawers while he was gone. She was beginning to be aware, in this new morning, of a vague sensation of guilt accompanying her sense of loss. It was an immense relief to know she had not been deserted, but what if she were nothing more to a burden both to Uncas and Mary-Elizabeth? She had been quite dependent on her aunt's goodwill for the last while, and it was hard to deny that she had perhaps not repaid her in a fitting manner. _But I had to tell her the truth_.

Even if the truth was the most confusing thing in the world.

_And I _still_ have yet to tell _him_ the truth...that I want to go back with him. And that I have known that I wanted to, for some time._

* * *

_Author's note: This is one of my shorter chapters. Apologies, but, kind of not, because I busted my ass trying to get it written within a week-ish of the last update. I tentatively project that there will be two more chapters. The final one will be an epilogue set in the future, wherein you'll get your sunshine, and also get to see some of what's happened with Nathaniel/Cora/Ben because they have been neglected (but needfully, I thought, as this last part to the trilogy was always intended to be mostly A/U's story, since Beyond left some people wanting)._

_I considered two endings. Depending on your taste you might feel "eh" about the one I'm going with. I hope the majority is happy with it, though._

_Thanks for following the stories. -SW _


	22. Chapter 22

The next few days passed quietly and uneventfully. Alice slept through most of both the daylight and the night hours, the medicine the doctor had prescribed being most helpful in this respect. It was mainly Joan who checked in on them and brought food, though she never lingered long because she was clearly made uneasy by Uncas' presence; Mary-Elizabeth came several times to check on Alice's condition as well, but they did not exchange any words of significance.

The period of recovery was thus a restful one for Alice. Knowing that the quiet Mohegan was watchful by her side—and waiting with patience until she should feel ready to rejoin the world outside the bedroom—was a source of immeasurable comfort and relief. It was relaxing to sit up in bed for an hour at a time, slowly sip at a cup of tea or brush out her hair while absorbing his presence in the room.

They did not speak much. She asked after Ben and mentioned her desire to see Cora and Nathaniel again. Uncas said that the boy had been doing well and though of course he had no more news of her sister and his brother than she did, it was reasonable to assume that Nathaniel had gotten her safely back to the cabin.

Always the conversation that they must yet have seemed to hang in the air around them, but Uncas would not bring it up. Alice knew he was waiting for her to do so, for her to give the word that she was ready to talk about their future. In a way this was a burden but she knew it could not be otherwise. And since she was not—quite—ready, she hung on to the burden, drawing it out, mulling over the words she wanted to say to him, in her mind, so that when the time came, she would not stammer or seem uncertain.

He deserved nothing less than absolute certainty this time, Alice thought.

After all that was behind them...he deserved an answer.

On the second day Alice had asked Uncas rather anxiously if he were eating, after realizing she had no idea what, if any, provisions were being made for him while he was here in the house; he told her that food was left out for him morning and night on the kitchen table. He was matter-of-fact as if it signified little, but it bothered Alice although she knew realistically she could not expect him to be able to take meals with Mrs. Gordon in the dining room. She had come to realize that Uncas' being there at all was only a tacit acceptance and one that could not really be broached to their host, for the sake of appearances; Mary-Elizabeth was turning a blind eye to the fact of Uncas' constant unchaperoned presence in Alice's room and that seemed a great allowance for the time being.

It was the noon hour now and she was indulging rather guiltily in the pleasure of a meat and vegetable pie. One that Alice had requested of the cook, it was a heartier meal than she was accustomed to eating, but her appetite was returning and she was craving more filling, savory foods. The meat was tender and luscious, the fall vegetables fresh, the gravy delectable. Scooping up a spoonful of the latter, she looked at Uncas. "Will you not have some with me?"

He gazed at her with his habitual solemn face which she had come to know was not actually expressionless—it only seemed that way when one did not understand it. Alice, however, delighted in the tiny quirk of his mouth as he replied: "I would not be much of a warrior to take sustenance from a woman abed."

She wanted to protest that she was better. She did feel better, physically; but it wouldn't change his mind to hear her say so.

At last she murmured, "But to eat alone feels strange. We have always shared what we had."

"That is not my wish for you." He sounded somber and she felt guilty again. She hadn't meant to make him feel as though he hadn't provided adequately. She put the spoon down and reached out for his hand. Warm fingers twined around hers.

Approaching footsteps sounded clearly outside in the hall—shoes were always so loud against wood—so they had plenty of time to pull apart before Mary-Elizabeth appeared in the doorway. Alice had returned her attention to the pie, and Uncas was examining the spine of a bedside book with unwarranted interest.

Mary-Elizabeth cleared her throat delicately. "I stopped by this morning, Alice, but you were sleeping. How are you today?"

"Very well." Alice set down the fork in response to her elder's formal, slightly apprehensive manner, and folded her hands. "I think I might like to venture outdoors later."

"If you think you are up to walking about a little, but make sure to be warmly dressed. It is quite cool." Mary-Elizabeth approached. "Might I talk with you? Just the two of us?" she added, almost apologetically, with a tilt of the head towards Uncas.

Alice looked at Uncas, not wishing him to feel dismissed as though he were a servant. But his enigmatic glance told her he did not mind, and he rose, and left the two of them alone, closing the door upon departing.

Her relative sat down. "My friend, Mrs. Wesley, and Esmond, have both asked after you. They were most anxious the night of the party. Naturally they do not know the details of your situation and I think it is best it remain that way, as I'm sure you do."

Alice made a noncommittal sound. She felt a little sorry that it would not be possible to continue her acquaintance with Esmond. He had been diverting. But she was certain her familiarity with a savage (no matter how good his English) would make it impossible for them to think of her in any positive light.

"I wish them both well," she said at last. "I hope the relationship between you and Esmond's mother will not be too strained."

"Perhaps it would be if she were less of a friend," Mary-Elizabeth admitted. "But do not concern yourself with that. Mainly, I would like to know what your intentions are for the future."

Alice was quiet, trying to think how to frame such intentions into words that would not be inflammatory—recalling her aunt having said _you must know it is completely impossible_ that they be together. Finally she said, "I will go back to my sister."

"With him?"

_If he wants me._

She nodded.

Mary-Elizabeth gave the tiniest sigh and touched her palm to her temple as if she had a headache. "I would not have you think you are unwelcome here."

"But he is."

"I cannot sanction this...relationship, no. That is true."

"Then we must go." With a steady gaze Alice looked into Mary-Elizabeth's eyes, feeling rather like Uncas as she did so, as it was his way to state things so simply, so factually. She saw Mary-Elizabeth searching to understand, but unable to, and it was, in a way, actually painful. There was no way to try to explain. _I never could explain what we are to each other. Not to anyone. Not my sister, not to him, not even to myself._

Was not love its own explanation?

* * *

Later that afternoon, dressed and wrapped in a thick shawl, Alice ventured outside, accompanied by Uncas. Joan had wanted to put up her hair but she had demurred and had braided it herself; after all, they were not going in the streets, only for a short stroll in the park behind the house.

Scudding clouds were massed in the sky, and it was cool and grey; an autumn wind blustered whatever leaves remained on the branches. Alice took a deep breath of the air and gathered her shawl tightly around her neck with her left hand as she leaned against Uncas with her right arm—very properly and irreproachably—tucked in his. They moved slowly among the trees.

"Warm enough?" he asked eventually. She murmured an affirmative, gratified by the familiar question.

Before long they were out of earshot, out of sight, of the house. The knowledge that they now had as much privacy as was possible under the current circumstances was freeing to Alice. She dared to lean closer to Uncas so that she was not strictly using him as a means of support. After a moment, he responded to this overture by sliding a compliant arm around her waist. But it was awkward to walk thus. They came to a stop, turning towards each other, almost guiltily (on Alice's part at least.)

Uncas' expression was searching.

"I missed you," she said. Admitted.

It did not seem adequate.

"Terribly," she whispered.

His brown eyes seemed to warm to the color of dark tea.

Why had it been so long since they had last kissed? An entire season had passed since that summer moment they had snatched together in the woods. Where the being (that was not, after all, to be) had been conceived.

Surely they should speak first, since there was so much to say.

But she wanted to kiss him. Or for him to kiss her. Either way, their lips belonged together. She yearned for physical contact. Words could wait a little longer.

Except for the words in her mind that screamed and jumbled together even as the moments were passing and he wasn't kissing her and she was thinking he _doesn't feel the same any more he doesn't want me he doesn't—_

"_Wiyon-ashay_," he said, startling her out of her almost instantaneous state of rapidly growing misery. "I have a question."

Alice blinked, trying to regroup, trying to regain control over the pattern of her thoughts. "Yes," she said, impressed that she managed to speak without any vocal tremor.

"When you left the camp of my people. Did you know there was to be a child?"

Though she felt she did not quite understand the significance of her answer to him she was glad to be able to reply quietly, "No—I did not."

They were standing very close, not quite touching, but Alice could sense the lifting of a burden in the way his body, imperceptibly, relaxed.

"I ask because there cannot be anything hidden between us. Not from now. Not if we are to be together as a man and a wife."

"Oh," she said. Faintly. "I thought you had perhaps...changed your mind."

His forehead creased. Taking her hands, he brought them up, gently, to his chest and laid them there for a moment. She felt the steady rhythm of the heartbeat she had so often fallen asleep to.

"This heart is not mine," he said. "It is yours. I gave it freely, long ago."

"I...know," she whispered, overwhelmed.

"Will you come back with me? Is it what you want?"

"_Yes_." Alice wasn't sure if she merely thought it so she said it again just to be sure. "Yes. Oh, Uncas, it is _all_ I want. I have been so miserable without you." She felt herself blushing but could scarcely be brought to care. The words were tumbling out as fast as she had been thinking moments ago. "At first I thought if I just kept myself busy I could forget about you, about us, but it wasn't possible. And then I was sorry that I had come here but I thought you would soon follow me...only you did not."

Uncas leaned in then and met her lips with his own, gently at first and then with deepening intensity. She thrilled to the warmth and reassurance of his mouth, how he tasted—just as she had said he looked when he had arrived that night—like home. Pine and woodsmoke and wonderful.

When they finally broke apart he said, "You know I cannot give you anything your people value."

"But the same is true for me. We will have to be our own people," she said, and then she thought about that for a few moments, liking the way it suddenly seemed profound.

"Are there people like us?" Uncas said, with almost a smile.

"Perhaps not now, but there may be." She thought of Ben; of Cora and Nathaniel's baby coming, of their own loss.

Of their future.

"Take me back," she said, eventually, after they shared another lingering kiss.

"Not right away."

"Tomorrow."

"You're not well enough yet," he chided.

"But winter is coming."

"Winter may come and I will still get you safely back to the cabin, but not tomorrow."

She sighed.

"For now, let us go back to the house."

Alice slipped her hand in Uncas's again, by way of assent.

Above them in the trees, the winds had begun to die down, and beyond, in the sky, the clouds were clearing, foretelling a brighter evening.


	23. Epilogue

_A quick review of dates: Novel 1 was set in (roughly) August 1757. Novel 2 began in September and finished in March 1758. Novel 3 begins in July 1758 and goes to October. Then, this epilogue is made up of vignettes which are my way of paying homage to the first novel in which Cora = spring, Uncas = summer, Nathaniel = fall and Alice = winter: one for each season in the year of 1761._

* * *

_Spring 1761 _

Daisies danced in the wind, their heads bobbing madly on slender stems as the toddler sought to catch several between his small hands. He was crouched over the flowers, but then a bird called nearby and the boy let out a screech in reply and ran after the source of the sound.

Cora smiled as she watched her son. The garden, which was just starting to yield some fresh greens, was a lovely spot to enjoy the pale blue of the sky and the morning's sunlight.

"Stay where Mama can see you, Jamie," she called, shading her face with her hand. It was a habitual remark. The two-year-old was never still for more than a moment at a time. Uncas often referred to his nephew as _akasq—_groundhog—because of the way the child would appear and disappear from sight. Nathaniel seemed to enjoy the boy's fearlessness, but it could be unnerving, particularly for Cora.

Chingachgook and Ben had come to stay with them for the past two summers, after James' birth, and Cora now looked forward considerably to their coming in the warm season for it meant a welcome break and a return to a more leisurely pace of living. With a grandfather available to dandle the child and Ben who dutifully hauled him around wherever he went, Cora had time for lengthier visits with Alice, Uncas, and their baby daughter, born the previous spring.

Alice had been slower to recover from childbed than Cora herself, and the winter had been a long one—but she seemed happy, now, as a wife and mother, not torn by the doubts and dissatisfaction that had plagued her in the past. Still there was never enough time for the two sisters to relax together, as they had used to, before the babies were born.

Nathaniel was up at the old cabin right now, helping Uncas to repair the roof that had seen its share of damage from the heavy burden of snow it had borne. Every season brought its jobs and there was always something that needed to be done…Cora sighed a little regretfully. Nathaniel had been right when he had said she would find it isolating to live here. Not that Alice and Uncas weren't the perfect neighbors; but since they were family and shared everything in any case, there were no unique resources.

Nathaniel had lately been talking of making another trip to the city, as their goods in anything they could not grow, make or hunt themselves were almost nonexistent now. He said he might wait until Chingachgook and Ben arrived and see which one of them wanted to accompany him—most likely the latter out of consideration for his father, who did not lightly undertake long travels any more. Uncas would want to stay with Alice and their young one, Cora thought, and it might be that Ben had a hankering to see his old birthplace again.

Cora reached for a few more of the greens to add to her apron. This was the first year that the garden had really yielded anything of note, and she meant to bring up the extra to Alice and Uncas' cabin; they would appreciate the fresh offerings.

Jamie trotted up clutching a few wilted dandelions as his contribution. She put out a hand to give an affectionate pat on his wildly curly head. "Shall we take a walk and visit your baby cousin?"

Jamie was already racing towards the path, his small moccasined feet sure and eager, scarcely waiting for Cora who had to hurry to keep up with him.

* * *

_Summer 1761 _

He eased out of bed, careful not to disturb either the sleeping child or her mother as he did so, and taking a moment to admire the picture they made as they lay; the baby's dark head nestled against Alice's chest, her light hair spilling around them both. The cabin air was still pleasantly cool, though the day promised to be a warm one.

Unexpectedly, while he was still looking at the two in bed, the baby's eyes fluttered open and she rolled over to stare at him with unblinking calm. His tiny daughter was a source of wonder to him. After having experienced firsthand the boisterous exploits and vocal stylings of his nephew Jamie's first year of life, Uncas had come to expect something similar out of his own child, but Isabel was utterly unlike her cousin. From the beginning she had been solemn, with a perfect inscrutable face. Nathaniel often commented that Isabel most resembled her father, with his eyes, skin and hair whereas Cora insisted the baby's delicate features were a perfect copy of Alice's. But her personality seemed to take the quietness of both parents.

Isabel let out a rare gurgle of greeting. Delighted, he leaned back over the bed and let her fingers discover a handful of his hair. The baby responded by patting his face in an almost indulgent manner. She was just past a year old and did not yet walk, preferring to be carried around everywhere.

"Do you want to swim today, _piyámáq_?" he asked her. (Fish; she loved the water.)

Alice rolled over and thrust an arm over her face against the morning light, uttering a small murmur of tired protest.

The baby widened her eyes at Uncas as if in mutual conspiracy. He scooped her up, murmuring in Mohegan against her soft, milk-sticky cheek. _Your mother must get some more rest. I'll take you outside._

They went out into the dew-wet morning together. Birdsong in the trees above was almost piercing in its quality; Isabel cocked her head, listening, as Uncas swung her up on his shoulders and strode beyond the cabin clearing down the path to the small stream.

Every morning so far this summer, father and daughter had made the trip to the water's edge and washed together; sometimes it was just a cursory venture involving hands and face, but when the weather allowed and Uncas wanted Alice to rest longer, they would spend an hour or two at the stream, splashing about in its depths and lolling on the grassy banks to dry in the sun afterwards.

Today was such a day. The sun blessed them with warmth but not unbearable heat as it glittered on the water's surface. Uncas held his daughter in the crook of his arm as she scooped and poured water through her tiny fingers over and over again. He waded to the opposite bank to show her where the schools of minnows had darted. He picked up smooth stones from the sand at the bottom and gave them to the baby to toss back down. Everything was subject to her solemn perusal and exploration of nature.

_Someone's coming_. Moving quietly out of the water, Uncas deposited a dripping Isabel under the shelter of a nearby overhanging tree whose branches provided some visual protection and told her to stay, knowing she would. He crossed the stream again and quickly circled around behind the approaching intruder, catching up with a disappointed Ben, who had clearly been trying to avoid being apprehended, just moments later.

"I thought I had gotten quieter," Ben mumbled, rather shamefaced.

Uncas gripped his forearm for a moment, granting him the warrior's greeting which clearly surprised—but pleased—the half-Munsee lad. "You have. You used to be as loud as an angry moose. Now you are only as loud as a peaceful moose. Welcome, younger brother."

Ben's expression lightened even further, almost to the point of a smile as he clasped Uncas' arm in response and then stepped back.

"My father?"

Ben gestured. "About an hour behind me. I told him I would come on ahead." His Delaware was easy and almost without accent to Uncas' ear now, obviously a benefit of the nearly three years spent in the wolf camp. Now fourteen, he was also noticeably taller than the previous summer; though he had been a small boy, he finally looked his age. His features had lost the mark of childhood and were attaining the lean angles of oncoming maturity, and his eyes were serious.

"How are my relatives?"

"Everyone is well; Machque and Tiskemanis send their greetings, and Nachenum and Sanquen," Ben replied. He was shouldering a heavy pack, which he relinquished to Uncas before they crossed back over the stream. "The camp is much closer this season—Is that Isabel?"

The baby was just visible beyond the trailing branches, still sitting where Uncas had put her, gravely staring at them both.

"She was here last year," Uncas pointed out, bending down to lift up his small daughter, who settled again comfortably in his right arm.

"But she looks like a real person now." Ben touched the baby's cheek with a cautious, curious hand.

They started back towards the cabin. "You must be ready to eat something," Uncas said.

Ben grunted. "We had rabbit last night but nothing since then, just some berries. Yes, I would be glad to eat."

"Well, we are low on supplies but there's fish and beans. And the garden is finally producing."

Alice, hearing their voices as they came into the clearing, had come out of the cabin. She took Isabel from Uncas with a kiss for the baby's sun-warm head and a smile of greeting for Ben, exhorting him, just as Uncas had, to come in and have some lunch.

* * *

_Fall 1761_

Nathaniel was pleased. The trip to the city, from which he had just recently returned, had gone well. Between the two of them, he and Ben had managed to bring back an ample load of supplies and seeds for next year's sowing. They had dropped off a letter for Cora and Alice's aunt updating her on the birth of the children and sending their good wishes.

The garden had had its first successful year—the year previous they had still been experimenting with soil conditions and crop rotation, but Nathaniel thought he had finally managed the correct combination of factors. He had never seen himself as a farmer. But things were different now. He was a married man and they had a son to consider. More children might yet come. He rather hoped not. He and Cora were busy enough with Jamie as it was, and Uncas and Alice's daughter, while an easy baby, had been a difficult birth for Alice. There was plenty of meat in the forest and now that the garden was flourishing they had little need to worry about food, yet the addition of more offspring might make the winters difficult.

Nathaniel was happy despite the ways in which his life had changed. A few weeks earlier he had left Cora, Chingachgook and Jamie at their cabin with few misgivings considering his father was around to look after them, and it had been good to set off with Ben (almost an adult) on a journey again. Yet the moment when they had seen the cabin come into view once more, smoke from a cooking fire spiraling into the sky, and Jamie's excited squeals as he ran to meet his father—all of it had struck him afresh with the knowledge how much home meant to him.

It was good to be home. It was good to have his father and Ben staying with them. It was good to have his brother and his sister-in-law only a few minutes away. That first fall had been hard, when they had had no word; Cora pregnant and brooding, and constantly worrying over her sister. They had had no idea what the spring might bring. Yet Uncas and Alice had returned by early winter, both slightly changed by their experience in the city, older somehow, but more committed to each other than ever. The two had said very little about their time there, and Nathaniel had been unable to bear a grudge against Alice almost from the moment she returned: she had so clearly suffered.

They were their own family now, Uncas and Alice and Isabel; and whatever society might or might not think of them, it mattered little here, and Nathaniel was glad of that, glad that they still lived in a world where they could find happiness.

* * *

_Winter 1761_

She sipped at the tea. It was strong, having been brewing all evening by the fireplace.

_I am twenty-one. Soon? Now? _How hard to reckon time when one usually did by moons, and moods of day and night, light and dark.

_I am a wife. I am a mother._

She curled her toes against the furs before the fire like a child. It was nice, though, sometimes, to be neither. Uncas had taken Isabel, wrapped so warmly before he'd gone out that all they could see of the baby were her inquisitive dark eyes, down the trail to have dinner at Cora and Nathaniel's. He had told her he wouldd be back before nightfall.

It had been pleasant to have a few hours alone. She had moved about the cabin, arranging things to her liking. Polishing the few dishes. Spending a little while with a new book Ben had brought up from the city for her.

Uncas had made her a rocking chair before the birth of Isabel. He had worked on it endlessly on winter nights like this one, trying to get the curves right. The end result had been serviceable if not beautiful. Alice loved it. She often rocked the baby to sleep there. With the addition of a few furs, it was as comfortable as anything she could imagine.

Alice took another swallow of her tea and stared into the firelight. Fire talked so much, if one could just listen. It spoke in colors of red and orange, but whispered in blue and purple and sea-green. There were rarely moments to sit and listen to the fire now, so she soaked up the time given to her.

The crunch of snowshoes outside now heralded the return of her family—not even Uncas could walk silently over the icy frozen snow with them, something she had teased him about. Normally the path was well-worn even in winter—Uncas made it a habit to keep the path flat so that Alice could follow him to Cora's in her moccasins—but they had recently had a snow accompanied by freezing rain that had crusted over the trail.

Alice laid another log on the flames before they came in to offset the blast of cold air that would accompany them, and went to open the door. Uncas turned, carefully, allowing her to see that Isabel was sound asleep on the carrier on his back. He eased it off, and Alice tucked the baby into a pile of furs on the center of their bed before returning to Uncas' side.

"Hungry?" he asked her.

"Not especially."

He shrugged off his outer coverings and handed her a cloth-wrapped package. "Your sister sent biscuits."

"I'll have them for breakfast." Alice put the food on the table and stood there for a moment, thinking.

Uncas came up behind her and put his hands gently on her wrists. She leaned back into him, enjoying as she always did the protective curve of his arms around her. Now, when he held her like this, it reminded her of when she had been pregnant with Isabel. He had held her with such reverent care then; as if the mere touch of his arms against her stomach would somehow disturb the babe within. She smiled at the memory.

"What?" he said, made aware perhaps because she had sighed, a little, at the same time.

"Nothing. Thinking of the past. I am...content."

"That is good." He pressed a kiss against her hair and released her, watching as Alice turned, gesturing for him to join her by the fire. Uncas stretched out, lithe as a cat, on the furs near her.

"I remember," she said suddenly, "the first night I spent in this cabin."

"Mm."

"I was terrified."

He had closed his eyes but now squinted at her with a hint of amusement in his expression, daring her to elaborate.

"I had never," Alice said, with some severity, "slept under the same roof, in the same room, as two men before. Strange men at that! I don't think I got a moment of rest that night. Certainly I never imagined I would be living here."

"Do you regret that you are?"

He spoke casually, but there was a great deal attached to the question; it touched so much of them, who they were, what their relationship had been, the struggles and separation they had endured in order to be together. It was a question that in its many forms had to be answered with care—bound up in truth.

"There is no other place I would be," she said, after a short while. "Though I have sometimes wondered if _you_ do not regret having found us in the woods that day."

"No," he said with a trace of a smile. "Not even when you fell in the mud and pushed me away when I went to help."

Alice crinkled her nose in embarrassment and pleasure.

"Not even," he said, warming to the subject, "when you ran off to the river in the middle of the night and told me you didn't want me to protect you."

She covered her face with her fingers and peered through them at him.

"But then when you burned the corn..."

Alice squealed in surprise and protest. "And you told me it was fine!"

Uncas propped himself up on one elbow and reached for her. "_Wiyon-ashay. _You are irresistible."

She let herself be pulled down to snuggle against him in the warmth of the furs.

* * *

_finis_


End file.
